


fields of gold

by AlwaysRain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angel Wings, Blood and Injury, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Families of Choice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, John Winchester Tries, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-23 11:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysRain/pseuds/AlwaysRain
Summary: When Dean was fifteen, his parents got divorced. When he was eighteen, the end of the world began. At twenty, he’s settled into the rhythm of apocalyptic farm life. That is, until an angel crash-lands in his wheat field, half dead, and asks for his help. Dean’s whole world changes when Castiel enters it. He finds himself struggling to keep Castiel a secret as he nurses him back to health, learns the truth about the apocalypse, and unwittingly begins to fall for the fallen angel. Just when Dean thinks he might be able to convince Castiel to stay, a storm forms in the west, beckoning Castiel to the last fight for the end of the world.---“Just remember,” she says, “angels are watching over you.”It’s the same thing that Mary has said for Dean’s entire life, each time she would tuck him in for bed or leave him behind with John. As Dean watches her walk to the truck and drive away with his grandfather, he can’t help but feel that it means something entirely different now.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 159
Collections: DCBB 2019





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> First off: thank you, reader, for choosing this fic! It's been my baby for many many many months now, and I'm so very excited to share it with you!!! I will say that it is shamelessly self-indulgent in parts, but I hope you enjoy reading it every bit as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Secondly: the biggest shout-out to Elena Gray, my artist! Gray has been wonderful to work with and is just the most most most amazing artist!!!! I am absolutely in love with each of the pieces Gray made for this fic; they're absolutely gorgeous and so accurate to the mental images I had!!! Give Gray a follow on tumblr (@cross-roads-blues) or instagram (@crossroads_art) and check out more of this crazy wonderful art!!!
> 
> Third: this is my third DCBB and for each one that I have done, my wonderfully talented best friend has beta'd my work. I want to give the biggest, sappiest, most grateful thank you to Jaime (@tennisxiu on tumblr) for knowing just what to do to help me out. You catch all of my grammar mistakes and aren't afraid to tell me what scenes need work to be better, and you always have great ideas for plotlines when I get stuck. I love you so so so much and I will always bug you when I need someone to look over a fic for me. Thank you!!!!
> 
> Lastly: I haven't tagged quite everything for fear of some pretty major spoilers but please please please don't be afraid to let me know if there's anything you'd like tagged- especially any triggers!!!! I want everyone's reading experience to be pleasant!
> 
> I'm on tumblr (@alwaysraineh) and I adore getting to talk with people, so- even if it's not about this fic (especially if it isn't!!)- feel free to reach out and send me a message!!!! I'd love to hear from you!!!
> 
> Anyhow, I'm gonna let you read, now. Enjoy!!!!

The first month was the hardest. That was the month in which everything was fresh and the wounds were still open. The month that featured Mary still trying to be a wife and Sam still trying to be a son. Samuel still used to living alone. The month that was angry, but not out loud, and hurting, but not in public, and still glimmering with hope, but not where it could be seen.

Dean did not follow these unspoken rules. Dean opted, instead, to be very loudly angry and very publicly hurt. But Dean was not hopeful, not even when he was alone. There was a reason his parents were getting divorced, he supposed, and he wasn’t going to make excuses for either of them.

It was during the third month that the divorce was finalized. That same night, Mary shepherded both of her sons to the couch and perched herself on the coffee table in front of them.

“This is a good thing,” she said. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her hands were shaking, but she sounded sure of herself. “Your father and I agree that we don’t want too much to change for you boys. It isn’t us versus them or him against me or anything like that. We don’t want this to change the way you think about either of us. We’re still family. There aren’t any sides to choose, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam mumbled, more interested in the apple crisp on the counter than what Mary was saying.

Dean did not respond, but allowed himself to be pulled into a tight group hug that was rather tearful on Mary’s part. There were no sides to pick, he thought, but he knew which one he was on.

Sam wriggled away from Mary so he could track down Samuel and ask about the crisp. Dean was half tempted to smack his little brother for walking away from their mother in that moment, but Mary laid a hand on his arm with a sad smile.

“Let him go,” she murmured, turning her bright blue eyes towards Dean. “He’s still just a kid, you know.”

After a moment, Dean nodded. Mary sighed and seemed to let herself crumple a bit. She looked tired and worn thin. Dean wished he were able to do something, anything, to make all of this easier for her.

“You’re still a kid, too, baby. I’m so sorry."

“None of this is your fault, Mom. You don’t have to be sorry.”

And Dean believed it. He hadn’t quite forgiven her for not fighting harder, but he knew why she gave up so quickly. He didn’t blame her. He blamed John.

The sixth month was when all the wounds were clawed back open by a chance encounter at a grocery store. Mary had just agreed to let Sam pick out a box of cereal and turned around to see Kate Milligan coming up the aisle. They smiled awkwardly at each other, but didn’t speak at first. Sam carried on as usual, oblivious to his mother’s distress. After all, Sam didn’t know who Kate Milligan was.

Dean was not so fortunate as Sam. He followed Mary’s lead in the store and greeted Kate. Made polite small talk about her new job at the hospital and Samuel’s health. Parted ways with a tense, small wave. When Dean heard Mary crying into her pillow that night, he did not mention the ring on Kate’s finger.

During the seventh month, Sam learned who Kate Milligan was. John met them outside the middle school on a Friday and took them to his apartment for the weekend. They passed the old green house on their way, and Dean couldn’t help but feel trapped in his father’s presence. John introduced Kate over dinner that night by saying: “Boys, this is Kate. She’s going to be part of the family.”

What Sam heard was: “Kate will talk academics with you over a glass of sweet tea and buy you expensive books.”

What Dean heard was: “This is the bitch who tore our family apart and made me break your mother’s heart.”

The ninth month was the first Christmas after the divorce. Samuel and Mary let Dean and Sam open their measly pile of gifts on Christmas Eve before they drove into Lawrence and met John at church for midnight mass. Kate was not in attendance, as per Mary’s only request. Dean learned later that this was not, in fact, for Mary’s benefit, but was actually Kate working a double shift.

After the service, John pulled Mary aside so they could speak privately, leaving the boys to stand awkwardly beside their pew. When they returned, Mary was no longer smiling. She hugged each of her sons and kissed their foreheads, and Dean resented himself for allowing her to drive back to the farm alone.

On Christmas morning, John and Kate shared the news of Kate’s pregnancy. Dean understood why Mary had been so terse the night before. Sam was ecstatic at the prospect of a new sibling. Dean was apprehensive; he had not forgotten what kind of a father John had been when Sam was still in diapers. Nor had he forgotten Kate’s place in the destruction of John and Mary’s marriage.

In the tenth month, Dean’s birthday was overshadowed by wedding plans. It was the twenty-seventh of January when Dean was forced to wear a suit and stand beside his brother at the front of a church while his mother watched his father marry another woman.

Mary tried hard to be polite that day. She was determined to be friends with John just as she had been before they had ever even begun dating. She was determined to be supportive of the new family that he was making. She was determined to be happy that he had found someone to love. And, of course, she was proud to see her boys standing with their father despite everything that had happened.

But seeing John exchange vows, share a first dance, and cut a cake with Kate was not easy. She didn’t need to love John to still care for him. She didn’t need to have feelings to be lonely at her ex-husband’s wedding.

The twelfth month was an anniversary that passed without much fanfare: a year of living outside Lawrence didn’t quite seem worthy of celebration. The fifteenth month would end up much the same as the twelfth. A year of official divorce never did require a party.

By the time Sam’s birthday rolled around, at the very beginning of the fifteenth month, Kate had given birth. Dean and Mary had a silent agreement that the baby, three weeks premature and still confined to the NICU, would not detract from Sam turning twelve as the wedding had taken from Dean’s sixteenth. Sam, however, insisted that they cancel his party and go to the hospital instead. Mary stayed at the farm under the guise of baking a cake for Sam, so Dean had to take the keys to her truck and drive Sam into Lawrence.

His name was Adam, the baby that came from the marriage that came from a relationship that ruined a marriage. He was small and new and slept peacefully with John’s blood running through his veins. The irony of that was not lost on Dean. Sam was taken by Adam; his existence meant that Sam was no longer the youngest brother.

Dean wanted to love Adam as much as Sam did, but all he felt was a hollow sort of resentment. John was already putting an obvious effort into being a better father to Adam than he had ever managed for Sam and Dean. Kate was still exhausted from complications in labor, but she was glowing with pride as she stared down at her son in her arms. Dean felt a little sick to his stomach.

What an awful existence, he thought, to be sixteen and loathe a six-day-old baby.

Dean excused himself politely after congratulating Kate. John came to find him in the hallway a while later, and Dean realized numbly that he had somehow avoided one-on-one time with John for over a year. It wasn’t funny, but Dean wanted to laugh.

John hovered awkwardly for a few minutes, then cleared his throat. “Look, Dean, I-”

“Are you going to leave them, too?”

Dean felt as surprised as John looked in that moment. He hadn’t meant to interrupt his father, and he hadn’t quite realized that he had been thinking about it. But with the question hanging in the air between them, Dean suddenly felt more at ease. No matter what happened next, John would know that Dean had not forgotten that John had been the first to give up on his family.

John sighed and shoved his hands further into his pockets. “I’m in a better place now than I was then, Dean. I… I know I’m not going to be able to make it up to you. Nothing I do could ever be enough to fix what I did. But I’m trying, Dean. I’m trying to do better.”

"With your new family, you mean.”

“With all of you. I can’t change what happened. I can only work with what I have. It took me too long to realize what I had, I know that. I’m not a perfect man. But you and Sam, you’re still my sons. I never stopped loving you. I still want to be there for you boys.”

“Support Sam all you want,” Dean snapped, “but I don’t need your apologies. If you really wanted to be a good dad, you would have been there from the start. You still have time with Sam and Adam, but it’s a little late to start trying with me.”

John visibly held his tongue and took a deep breath. “We haven’t talked much since the divorce, Dean. I don’t want you to feel like Kate and Adam are replacing you and Mary, because they aren’t. I’m sorry I hurt you both, but-”

“You should have thought of that before you cheated on Mom, then.”

Before the divorce, that comment may have warranted a shouting match. After the divorce, it merely bought time for Dean to stalk away. Sam found him in the waiting room twenty minutes later, and the pre-teen boy looked peeved.

“What the heck, Dean? Why’d you just leave like that?”

“’Cause I did,” Dean grumbled, refusing to look his little brother in the eye.

Sam huffed out a sigh and brushed hair back from his face. “Are we still going to dinner with Dad, at least?”

“No. He should stay here with Kate and the kid.”

Sam made a face and opened his mouth to protest, but Dean wasn’t listening. He was already making his way to the parking lot, Mary’s truck keys jingling in his hands.

After the incident at the hospital, Dean stopped counting the months. All the same, it was during the twenty-third month that Samuel’s health began to noticeably decline. Mary was reluctant to ask Kate for help, but when Samuel refused to see a doctor, it was clear to everyone in the family that Mary’s father was far more important to her than any residual resentment she harbored for her ex-husband’s new wife.

In the thirtieth month, the attacks started. Venice was the first city to fall; the near complete destruction left the once-famous and bustling city a shell of rubble and smoke. Not three weeks after Venice came Minsk, reduced to ash in under an hour. Shortly after Minsk was Taipei, Buenos Aires, Glasgow, Vancouver.

And then the internet went out. By the time the thirty-sixth month rolled around, several major cities had been rendered uninhabitable. Television sets were used only for news broadcasts, phone calls often dropped signal, and electricity was unreliable no matter what its source was. Sixth months after the catastrophe in Venice, people were calling it the start of the apocalypse.

When Dean was fifteen, his parents divorced, and it felt like the end of the world. Now Dean is eighteen. His parents have been divorced for three years, his half-brother is nearly two, his grandfather is slowly dying, and the world is actually ending.


	2. Chapter 1

“No, Mom, I don’t- _no_.”

Mary huffs indignantly at her son, letting her hands fall against the counter with a thud. Flour and tiny pieces of stray bread dough puff up in a cloud around the impact site. She allows the cloud to settle before she resumes kneading the ball of dough in front of her.

“All I’m saying,” she says, her words staccato to the rhythm of her knuckles against the bread dough, “is that this is going to be the only time I ever see my oldest son graduate from high school. I think that’s worthy of a celebration!”

“You said the same thing when I turned eighteen, Mom.”

“You’re an adult, now, of course I would want to celebrate that!”

Dean shrugs from his perch on the opposite counter. He leans across the sink to snag a cookie from the still-open jar. Mary shoots him a warning glance, and he clumsily closes the cookie jar with one hand.

“If we have a party, we’re gonna have to invite Dad, and he’ll bring Kate and Adam, and… the point is, Mom, they’ll be here.”

Mary shakes her head gently. “Honey, if you don’t want them to come out to the farm, they won’t.”

“We can’t just _not _invite Dad. He’d never shut up about it,” Dean deadpans, and shoves the entire cookie into his mouth.

Mary laughs as she rolls the dough and drops it into a greased bread pan. “We could find somewhere in town to host, then. Or we can have our party here, and you can plan one to have in town with your father. I won’t even invite myself to that one.”

Dean makes a face of slight disgust. “… No. I don’t want to have one party, let alone two. I don’t want to walk in that stupid ceremony, either.”

“You don’t? I thought you would. You worked hard for that.”

“Not really. Mom, they make you buy your own cap and gown. Why can’t I just get the diploma and be done with it?”

Mary turns to face Dean with a contemplative expression, wiping her hands on her apron. “You really don’t want to do any of this graduation stuff, huh?”

Dean shrugs again, feeling the tips of his ears burn with a guilty flush. He doesn’t want the attention of a graduation ceremony or open house parties, but Mary is clearly a little disappointed that she won’t get to plan a party. Dean bites his lip.

“Sorry, Mom.”

Mary watches her son for a moment, then nods. “You don’t need to apologize. And we don’t need to do any of that if you don’t want to, but we’re going to get your diploma framed and I’m going to hang it on the wall in the living room.”

Dean laughs and hops off the counter so he can cross the kitchen and hug his mother. He mumbles a ‘thank you’ against her shoulder. When they pull apart, Mary lays a flour-covered hand against Dean’s cheek and beams up at him.

“I love you, honey, and I’m _so_ proud of you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Dean turns his face into Mary’s hand with a gentle smile. “I love you too, Mom.”

The topic of graduation is not breached again until Sam and Adam’s joint birthday dinner two months later. Dean is sandwiched awkwardly between Sam and Kate at the tiny table in John and Kate’s apartment in downtown Lawrence. Sam has been chattering endlessly about an English project, and Dean only realizes the topic has changed because Sam falls silent.

Dean glances up to find his father and step-mother both staring at him. “… What?”

“We asked where you’re thinking of going to school,” Kate says sweetly. “Obviously travel costs are going to make everything harder these days, but you could still have some big plans.”

“Uh…” Dean pats his fork against his pile of mashed potatoes and looks nervously between John and Kate. “I was just gonna keep working with Bobby.”

“So Lawrence Community College, then?”

“No. Singer Auto Repair and Salvage. I’m not going to college, Kate.”

“No college!” Adam crows, waving a fist full of potatoes through the air. Kate shushes him and makes him place the potatoes back on his plate. John clears his throat a couple of times during the process, and finally seems to find the words to speak.

“Dean, I thought we made a deal. You were at least going to trade school.”

“We made that deal when I was Sam’s age,” Dean mutters, desperately trying not to sneer. “You said I had to think about it. I thought about it, and I decided that school isn’t my thing. And I _like_ working with Bobby.”

John frown and opens his mouth to speak but stops short at Kate’s expression. Kate places her hand on Dean’s arm, and he hardly resists the urge to pull away.

“Is this because of New York, honey? That was a lot closer to home than usual.”

Dean struggles not to make a face. “New York isn’t any closer than Tijuana was. This isn’t about the bombings, Kate, I just don’t want to go to college.”

“Dean, it’s alright to be afraid of-”

“I’m not scared! I know Sam is always talking about going to law school at Stan-whatever after he graduates, but I don’t want shit like that. I’m not like Sam, okay? You both ask me stuff like this every time you see me, and my answer hasn’t changed. I just want high school to be over with so I can rebuild cars full time. That’s it.”

John taps his fingers impatiently on the edge of the table. He draws in a deep breath. “We can talk about that plan later. When’s your graduation ceremony?”

Dean feels his heart sink. He doesn’t want to rehash his conversation with Mary; this time around would involve a lot more yelling, and it already feels like he is solely responsible for ruining Sam’s birthday. Thankfully, Sam chooses that moment to speak up.

“I heard from Eileen’s grandma that they might be cancelling it this year, actually. She said something about not having enough space to fit everyone in the gym, and with all the rain we’ve gotten, they aren’t sure if the football field will hold up.”

John makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That so? And why does Eileen’s grandma know that?”

Sam launches into a long, overly involved explanation. Dean gives his brother a small, grateful smile while John is distracted and makes an effort to play nice with his father for the rest of the night.

In the end, Dean’s high school graduation is just as uneventful as his sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays. He leaves the parking lot on the last day of school, starts working full time the next morning, and receives his diploma in the mail three weeks later. Which, really, is completely unnecessary, as Dean is still driving Sam to school every day at that point. All the same, Mary has it framed and hung on the wall in a matter of hours.

By the end of the summer, telephones have been completely abandoned in favor of communicating by mail or in person. The television plays static on every channel except from six to eight in the morning and six to ten at night, when news channels broadcast updates on the destruction across the globe.

At the end of August, not long before Sam is meant to start his sophomore year of high school, Samuel appears in Dean’s attic bedroom. Climbing two flights of stairs from the main floor of the house has clearly winded the old man, but he breathes carefully so that Dean won’t notice how out of breath he is. Dean notices.

The attic is more of a storage space than a bedroom, filled with odds and ends from four generations of Campbells living on the farm. When Mary moved back home with the boys, Dean had opted for cleaning out part of the attic rather than share a room with Sam. Cleaning turned out to be clearing enough space for a bed, a desk, and an area rug, making a path to the two gabled windows, and dragging out anything within the first two feet of clutter that he deemed usable or interesting.

Samuel puffs his way over to the only accessible chair and sits down with a groan. Dean glances up from where he’s sprawled on the floor flipping through a vintage car magazine. He props himself up on his elbows so he can see his grandpa better.

“Hey, Pa. What’s up?”

Samuel waits a moment to answer, letting his heartrate and breathing slow. “I was thinking,” he starts, and then stops for a breath. “We used to have one of them tube radios that don’t need no batteries or electricity or nothin’. It’s either up here or in the tack room of the barn. Hopin’ its up here, though.”

Dean pushes himself into more of a sitting position. “You have a vacuum tube radio? Does it work?”

“Probably not. If we can find it, I want to fix it up so we know what’s goin’ on out there. Think you can help with that?”

“Sure. I bet I can find what we need between what’s here and what Bobby’s got.”

Samuel nods once, gruffly, and motions for Dean to help him back out of the chair. Even with both of them searching through boxes, it takes nearly two hours for Dean to unearth the radio.

“Here, Pa!” Dean calls, voice muffled by the dusty clutter stacked around him.

Samuel shuffles over and together they haul the heavy machine out and down both sets of stairs, to the living room, where they place it on the coffee table. Dean admires the radio while Samuel pads his way over to his armchair and plops down.

The wooden exterior is plain and definitely needs a new coat of varnish, and one of the knobs has been broken off, but the grate over the speaker is intact, intricate and beautiful. The design in the old brass is delicate, contrasting with the simple, untouched wood. The brass knobs are engraved with the same design as the grate, though far less tarnished.

“This is really cool, Pa. Do you think we could actually make it work?”

Samuel shrugs and wipes sweat from his forehead. “I’m just hopin’ it don’t need some fancy part or nothin’. If we just need to make a few small tweaks, I’ll bet we can find everything we need for it. Anything new and we may as well scrap it.”

“What? No way, Pa! We can’t just throw this thing away.”

“If it don’t work, it’s useless junk,” Samuel says, and Dean recognizes the tone of finality in his voice.

He doesn’t argue, but makes a point of working on the radio several times a day. He wants to be the last one to have hands on the machine if it doesn’t end up working, just in case he can save if before Samuel scraps it. In any other timeline, a radio like this would have been a valuable antique. Now, it is priceless if it works. If not, Dean is sure he can make it into something beautiful for his mother.

The next few weeks pass quickly as Dean pores over the intricacies of the antique radio. The fourth time he attempts turning the radio on after working it, the speaker immediately begins crackling to life. Dean whoops and nearly trips over his own feet in his excitement.

That night, the whole family crowds around the coffee table and listens to the news. It’s a bleak outlook, as always, but the knowledge that they won’t lose touch with the world when the electricity finally fails feels like a lifeline.

Samuel’s health gives him more trouble throughout the winter. Dean spends most of his free time doing barn chores for Samuel, or in Lawrence, putzing around Bobby’s auto shop while Sam is at school. When the last bell rings, Dean is waiting in front of the school in Mary’s rusty pickup truck, ready to head back to the farm. Every day, they come up the muddy drive to find their mother seated on the porch swing, wrapped in an old cardigan. She greets her boys and follows Sam inside while Dean works on maintenance problems in the barn.

“What happens if Pa doesn’t get better?” Sam asks one bleak day at the end of December.

He and Dean are driving back from Lawrence, bumping along old roads that have turned to mush beneath the wet snow. Mary and Dean try not to drive to Lawrence except when completely necessary anymore- the apocalypse tends to make gas prices skyrocket- but Samuel’s health is obviously weighing on his daughter.

Samuel had insisted that a ‘little troubling breathing never hurt no one’ and had spent two days mending fences in the back pasture despite the constant slew of rain and snow. Naturally, he’d caught a cold, and Mary tried to hide how worried she was, but she’d still sent the boys to town to hunt down medicine.

Dean looks over at his little brother, now, at the slightly pinched and anxious expression on his face. Wet gravel crunches underneath the tires as they turn a corner. Hot air from the vents rustles the small plastic bag on the seat between the two boys.

“What do you mean? It’s just a cold, Sammy, he’ll be fine.”

Sam is quiet, just as he had been before asking the question. He shrugs. “I know. But Mom just made us go all the way to Lawrence for cold medicine. We didn’t even get gas or kerosene or anything. Don’t you think that’s weird, Dean?”

Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel, contemplating what he’s going to say in response. In truth, he doesn’t know what’s going on with Samuel. He’s not sure even Samuel or Mary truly know what’s happening either. There are days that Samuel complains of chest pain, and he coughs when he laughs too hard or moves too much, and occasionally he isn’t able to stand up because he can’t draw deep enough breaths. But Dean hadn’t ever considered that his grandfather might actually be sick until recently.

He sighs and slows down to avoid a pothole. “I dunno. It’s not like Pa is all that young anymore. The cold meds will get him back on his feet faster than chicken soup or whatever.”

“I guess,” Sam grumbles, turning to look out his fogged-up window.

Dean frowns. “Sam, he’s gonna be just fine. Pa is a stubborn old bastard. A little head cold ain’t gonna take him down.”

He turns onto the old, rutted drive for the farm and the rusty truck soon emerges from the trees into an open field. In a few months, the slushy snow will clear up enough for grass and winter wheat to start poking through. The truck bumps across the ruts by the barn, and Mary comes into view. She’s on the porch wing, swathed in her cardigan as usual, but she bears a worried expression.

Dean parks underneath the towering oak tree at the edge of the front yard, and the truck makes a tired sort of wheezing noise as he turns it off. Sam snatches the bag of cold medicine and hops out, leaving Dean to lean across the bench seat and close the creaky passenger door.

Dean watches as Sam greets Mary with a quick hug before bounding inside, presumably to find Samuel and give him the cold medicine. Dean approaches the front porch more slowly, opting to sit beside his mother rather than hug her. Mary smiles and reaches over to take his hand, but doesn’t speak right away.

“Mom?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Is… do you think Pa is really sick?”

Mary is quiet, but she squeezes Dean’s hand with both of her own. “I don’t know.”

“Sammy’s starting to ask questions.”

“He’s smart. I knew he would figure it out at some point.”

“What should I tell him?”

Mary shrugs and rests her head on Dean’s shoulder, heaving a sigh as she does so. “The truth, I suppose. As much as we know, at least. I don’t want to worry him over anything that we don’t know for certain.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and they fall silent for a few seconds. Dean presses a kiss against the top of his mother’s head. “We’ll make sure Pa will be okay, Mom.”

It isn’t until the following year that the electricity finally fails for good. It’s May, and business at the auto shop has been unbelievably slow all spring. The last car they got in was nearly a week ago, and had only needed an oil change. Before that, there was a truck that needed new tires.

When it happens, Dean is working underneath an old early model Ford that Bobby has had sitting out back for close to a decade. Bobby’s dog, a hulking beast of a rottweiler, is laying beside Dean beneath the car, drooling on the concrete and panting in Dean’s face. The work light shuts off with a soft pop just as Dean is trying to shove a small part back into place.

“Ah, shit,” Dean whispers, and Rumsfeld huffs out a hot breath beside him. Dean shoves the dog’s slobbering face away with a greasy hand. “Hey, Bobby! Work light needs another bulb!”

There’s a distant clatter as Bobby drops a wrench, followed by a muffled crash and a long bout of swearing. Heavy footfalls pass by the car and stop nearby at the outlet. Bobby grumbles something about the ‘damn faulty light’ and then shouts as the outlet shocks him when he bends to unplug the light cord. The spark seems to travel up the cord, because the light suddenly flashes bright in Dean’s face and pops louder. He swears and jerks an arm up to shield himself, whacking his knuckles on the undercarriage in the process. Rumsfeld whimpers and licks his cheek.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell was that, Bobby?”

“Musta blown a circuit. I’m gonna go check the breaker. Why don’t you get yourself out from under that hunk o’ junk? Rumsfeld, you’re fine, quit that whining.”

Rumsfeld’s tail starts thumping at the sound of his name, but as Dean emerges from underneath the old Ford, he can tell that the dog is still stressed. He absently scratches behind Rumsfeld’s ears as he listens to Bobby clearing a path through the garage to the circuit breaker.

“Aw, hell,” Bobby says, his gruff voice easily carrying over the mess to Dean.

“What’s up?”

“Whole thing is fried. You should probably head home and check on your family.”

“No, Bobby, I don’t want to leave this mess for you to clean up all on your own.”

“It’ll still be here tomorrow, boy, don’t you worry. Just go get your brother from the library and get yourself home.”

Dean frowns and pushes himself back to his feet. He can’t see the circuit box past Bobby, but he knows that something major must have happened. “What’s going on, Bobby?”

The mechanic sighs and takes off his trucker cap so he can scratch the top of his head. “That breaker box is melted to shit. Somethin’ just happened. I dunno what, but I know you need to head home and make sure all y’all are safe.”

Dean is hesitant to leave Bobby behind, but Bobby practically shoves him out the door after giving him a quick, rough hug. Sam, of course, is none too happy when Dean tracks him down at the library, but he soon stops complaining when he sees the warning glare that Dean shoots him as they hop back into the truck.

The scene they walk into back at home is not the one that Dean is expecting. Samuel and Mary are in the living room, huddled around the radio Dean had restored the year before. Mary glances up at the sound of the front door closing and makes a horrible sort of choked gasping noise. Her face is pale and scared, and her eyes widen when she catches sight of the brothers. She pushes to her feet and crosses the living room to pull both her boys into a tight hug, kissing their cheeks and fluttering her hands against their faces and through their hair.

“Oh my god,” she manages to stammer out after a moment. “You’re back. You’re okay. Oh, my boys, my babies, oh my god. I thought- it was silly, I know, but… I-”

“Mom? What’s going on?” Sam’s voice is small. He hasn’t sounded this much like a child in years.

“Um-” Mary looks over her shoulder at Samuel, obviously unsure how to answer Sam’s question.

Samuel motions for the three of them to gather beside the coffee table. As they approach, Dean hears the staticky voice of a woman coming quietly through the old radio speakers.

_“…seems to have caused massive blackouts across the country. Never before have we as a nation experienced such simultaneous destructive attacks. Authorities are unsure of when, or if, the electricity will ever come back on. _

_“Survivors outside of Omaha are now reporting sightings of, quote, ‘flying men’ with ‘wings like hawks’. Bodies found amongst the rubble bear evidence of a possible sonar weapon, with fresh blood leaking from both ears. One man claims to have seen his sister collapse after, quote, ‘black smoke poured from her mouth while she screamed. It was the worst sound I’ve ever heard, and it was not human’. _

_“We have yet to receive confirmation that these reports bear any truth, especially as there have been no updates on Toledo or Phoenix. All the same, the few survivors of Omaha have begun to refer to the attack as a battle between angels and demons. Whether these creatures are real or merely hallucinations remains…”_

Dean’s heartrate picks up at the mention of angels and demons. He stops listening a moment later, looking away from the radio to find Sam’s eyes trained on him. Dean can see the wheels turning in his baby brother’s head, but he doesn’t manage to speak before Sam opens his mouth.

“They’re right, aren’t they? What all those people have been saying is true. The bombings aren’t really bombings. This is the apocalypse.”


	3. Chapter 2

After the triple destruction of Omaha, Toledo, and Phoenix, the world finally seems to change. Phones and internet and television had felt like drastic changes when they happened, but they were nothing compared to when the electricity had gone out. Nothing compared to a nation that suddenly knew the truth about the end of the world.

There comes a mass exodus out of cities that still stand strong despite the circumstances. Hordes move away from civilization back into the countryside they neglected for so long. Some attempt to make their way to the cities that have been destroyed for nearly two years.

Samuel’s old shotgun becomes a common sight around the farm as the months go on and raiders become more common. The farm, with well over a hundred acres of land, several sources of fresh water, and livestock, is like a gold mine for the vagrants who would try to steal rather than trade on their way through.

Dean doesn’t think either Samuel or Mary would ever actually shoot anyone, but the shotgun is an extremely effective deterrent. In a way, John and Mary’s divorce probably ended up saving all of their lives by moving them out to the farm. In any other circumstance, Samuel would have been living alone, and Mary and the boys would have been stranded in Lawrence.

All of this happens without anyone acknowledging the cause; creatures older than myth and thought to be nothing more than biblical fiction were real. Not only were they real, but they were waging a war and reducing entire congregations of the human populace to dust in their path. Even so, Dean is more concerned with the safety of his family than he is with contemplating the known existence of angels and demons.

The safety of the family, of course, is brought to a screeching halt by Samuel’s health. Mary has been begging him for months to let her take him to see a doctor. Grumpy and stubborn as ever, Samuel manages to resist until August, when there comes a morning on which, no matter how hard he tries, he is unable to get out of bed.

Dean finds Mary on the porch swing, an untouched mug of coffee clutched in her hands. Her face is closed off, but her eyes are drawn tight and she holds her shoulders rigidly in place. She’s afraid.

Dean sits down beside his mother and uses his foot to rock the swing gently back and forth. Dew sparkles on the grass beyond the shadow of the house. Past the barn, chickens are pecking around the feet of sleepy-looking cattle. To the south, a whooping crane calls for its mate. It’s peaceful in the early morning sunlight, and Dean draws his next breath into a guilty chest knowing that he’s about to ruin it.

“You can’t let him say no anymore, Mom. You have to take him to Lawrence.”

“I know,” Mary says quietly, not looking at her son. “But Dean, he-”

“_Mom_.” A beat of silence passes. Dean bites his tongue before continuing. “Pa is sick. He has been for a while, and we all knew it, and we all tried to ignore it. We can’t ignore this anymore, Mom. Something in Pa’s body is trying to kill him. He needs to go to Lawrence.”

Mary purses her lips. She looks like she’s struggling not to cry. “I- I can’t leave you boys here all alone, honey, not… not after everything that’s been happening.”

Dean wraps an arm around Mary’s shoulders and squeezes her against his chest. “Sam and me will be just fine, Mom. You can take the truck, I’ll keep the gun. We can do all the barn chores and I’ll make sure nothing happens to Sammy. Right now, Pa needs to be the priority.”

“Dean…”

“Mom, you take care of us all the time. You’re always there for us. He’s your dad, Mom, and he needs you to take care of him, too. You can’t take no for an answer anymore. Pa’s sick, and he needs you.”

Mary’s face crumples. The coffee in her hands begins to slosh as she trembles. Her tired blue eyes fill up with tears and her voice is tight when she speaks again.

“I know, honey, I know. But I just… I can’t help thinking- honey, what if we’re too late?”

“We aren’t. Okay? You can’t start thinking like that. We aren’t too late, not yet. But I’m going to go get Pa down to the truck and you need to be there ready to drive him to Lawrence. Don’t think about me and Sam. I promise we’ll be okay.”

After a moment, Mary nods. She turns her face into Dean’s chest, pulling him closer to her for a few seconds. She wipes her face with one hand as she pulls away, drawing in a shaky breath.

“You had to grow up too fast, honey, and you’re too smart for your own good. But you’re right about your grandpa.” Mary smiles sadly at her son and squeezes his hand before passing him her mug of coffee. “Why don’t you take this up with you? It might make him less grumpy.”

Dean chuckles his agreement because on any other day that might have been true. But today doesn’t seem quite so lucky.

He knocks lightly on Samuel’s door before letting himself in, careful not to spill any coffee as he shoulders the old door open with a creak. Samuel has assumed as much of an upright position as he can against his pillows and the headboard, but it’s obvious that he’s weak. His breathing is labored and shallow, almost like he’s trying to keep himself from coughing.

“Morning, Pa,” Dean says as he approaches, trying to assess Samuel’s mood.

Samuel glares instead of answering, so Dean’s unasked question is rather quickly answered. He sets the coffee on the nightstand and reaches to help Samuel sit up more, moving the pillow to a move comfortable position behind his back.

“Brought you some coffee, Pa. Cows need feeding, you can’t stay in bed all morning.”

Samuel grunts in response, and immediately dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean grabs the handkerchief that’s sitting on the nightstand beside a half empty glass of water and hands it to his grandfather. When the coughing subsides, Samuel tips his head back with a pained grimace. His breath wheezes deep within his chest. Dean reaches over to trade the handkerchief with the coffee mug, pretending the entire time that he hasn’t noticed the blood speckled on the cloth.

“Your mother send you?” Samuel asks after his breathing slows again.

Dean considers lying, but it doesn’t seem worthwhile anymore, so he shrugs.

“Not exactly. Cows do need to be fed, and I think one of the goats stepped in a gopher hole. But… that’s not what I came up for.”

“Tell me about the goat.”

“Pa, come on. I’ll take care of the goat later today. Right now, I need you to cooperate. Mom isn’t the only one who thinks you should see a doctor. You’re sick, we all know it, and I don’t think any of us want to lose you, so we all need to stop pretending.”

Samuel sighs, and Dean hates the way it rattles around in his lungs. But the old farmer nods instead of protesting. It should feel like relief, Dean thinks. It just feels like defeat.

The journey from Samuel’s bedroom down the stairs and out the front door takes longer than it should. Dean has to support most of his grandfather’s weight because Samuel can hardly do more than shuffle his feet. By the time Dean manages to get Samuel strapped into the passenger seat of the truck, Samuel is wheezing again and has stumbled several times.

Dean slaps the old man on the shoulder instead of hugging him, as has been their custom for several years. Samuel nods at his grandson with a tired smile. Dean closes the door and taps the side of the truck twice before returning to the front porch, where Mary is lecturing Sam about staying close to the house and listening to Dean. When Dean approaches, Mary stretches on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“You boys take care of each other, okay? Keep the farm safe. If we aren’t back by nightfall, I want both of you to go down into the basement and lock all the doors behind you. I love you both so, _so _much.”

“Love you, too, Mom,” the brothers mumble in unison.

Mary looks between them, her blue eyes shining. She still looks conflicted about leaving her sons behind while she ventures into the city. “Just remember,” she says, “angels are watching over you.”

It’s the same thing that Mary has said for Dean’s entire life, each time she would tuck him in for bed or leave him behind with John. As Dean watches her walk to the truck and drive away with his grandfather, he can’t help but feel that it means something entirely different now.

Sam makes it all of fifteen minutes helping in the barn before he announces that he’s going to go read a book and disappears in the direction of the house. Dean rolls his eyes and continues working, shoveling manure out of the stalls and carting it across the barnyard to the compost pile by the garden. By midmorning, all the livestock have had their first feeding and Dean has pulled the goats inside so they have no risk of injuring themselves further.

One of the barn cats is weaving between Dean’s legs while he collects eggs from the chicken coop. He pushes the cat gently away with his foot, imitating its annoyed meow as he closes the coop door behind him.

The house is silent when Dean enters to drop off the basket of eggs in the kitchen. He frowns and crosses the house to shout up from the bottom of the stairs.

“Sammy! Hey, Sam!”

There comes the sound of footsteps and a door being flung open. Sam sounds annoyed when he shouts back to Dean.

“What?! I’m trying to read!”

“I’m gonna walk the property line, you wanna come?”

“No! I want to read my book!”

“_I want to read my book_,” Dean mumbles in a nasally, mocking tone. He clears his throat before raising his voice again. “Well, if Mom and Pa get back before me, let ‘em know where I’m at!”

“Whatever,” comes Sam’s response, followed by his door slamming closed again.

Dean huffs out a sigh and leaves through the back door of the house, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder as he hops down the steps to the back porch. He scares up a rabbit as he traipses past the garden, squinting against the sunlight until he reaches the tree line.

Dean supposes he can’t blame Sam for his sour behavior. After all, Dean had been angry and resentful at sixteen because his family had just fallen apart and it seemed like John had moved on to a new life before Mary could even begin to heal. Dean had been annoyed with his baby brother for not knowing the truth that was kept from him; that John had cheated on Mary. Sam chose to be difficult toward Mary because for all he knew, it had been her choice to take him away from his home and his father. That attitude had caused friction between the brothers for several years, and in some ways, it still does. But Sam had been eleven, and Mary hadn’t wanted him to know the truth about the divorce.

Now, Sam is sixteen, and Dean isn’t able to find fault with his behavior. If Dean had been allowed to be upset when his life had undergone drastic change, Sam is certainly allowed to be upset about the same thing.

Sam has been talking about being a lawyer for as long as Dean can remember. When Sam was twelve, he started researching different law schools around the country. By the time the internet went out when he was thirteen, Sam had set his heart on Stanford. He was doing everything in his power both in and out of school to make sure he would be able to go. Even as the world became aware of the apocalypse, Sam was determined to get to California after graduation.

And then Palo Alto fell to the angelic war, mere weeks before Sam turned sixteen. He would have had one more year in school if the federal education department hadn’t begun to shut schools down for fear of children’s safety.

Dean can’t imagine being a year from achieving his life goal and being forced to watch it burn. Then again, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever really had a life goal.

He’s always been different from Sam in that regard. Sam has always had some sort of direction, something to work towards no matter how small. When he was three, Sam had taken to carrying around an old insect identification book of Mary’s and had announced that he was going to learn all the bugs. In contrast to his brother, Dean had always done what would make him happy in that moment, rather than looking toward the future. More often than not, that meant hanging around his mother or playing with model cars.

Dean spends most of the day walking the property line, making sure fences are intact where fences are meant to be intact and that trees are marked where trees should be marked. He stops by the pond, shooing the small flock of wild geese that gather every summer. They honk at him and crankily fly to the other side of the pond, where they belligerently watch him as he flips them off. Dean walks along the tree line near the north edge of the property, following the stream he used to go fishing in. He never did catch anything, but it had been fun to pretend he was alone in the world, surviving in the wild with only what he could garner from the land. At least, until Samuel or Deanna could be heard far in the distance, calling him back to the house for dinner.

When Samuel and Mary aren’t home for dinner, Dean pulls an old can of spaghetti-o’s off the back of the pantry shelf and dumps it into a small pot. He heats it on the gas stove, pours it into two bowls, yells for Sam, and takes one of the bowls out to the front porch. With the shotgun by his side, Dean assumes his mother’s place on the swing, watching the long gravel drive for any signs of her return.

Dean stays on the porch listening to the birds and watching the horses run circles around their pasture long after he’s finished eating. Sam’s bowl is already washed and put away by the time Dean goes back inside, but Sam is nowhere to be seen on the lower floor of the house.

The sun begins to dip in the sky, and Samuel and Mary still haven’t come home. Dean tells himself that he’ll do the barn chores before he allows himself to worry. The hospital in Lawrence can’t work that quickly anymore, after all, so he shouldn’t be surprised if a quick doctor’s visit takes all day.

Dean shoos the chickens back into their coop, kicking halfheartedly at one of the roosters when it tries to peck him. He calls for the horses while trying to herd the cows back towards the barn, and gives up once he’s gotten them all into the front pasture. They all move quicker when they hear him climbing the ladder to the hayloft anyhow. The three goats poke their heads through the railings of their pen to try and eat Dean’s pants as he walks past with grain.

It’s dark when Dean leaves the barn to return to the house, and the truck is still not back in its spot beneath the oak tree. Dean tries hard not to think about the implications of that fact, but it’s hard to keep the fear and guilt from settling into his gut when he sees Sam sitting on the top step of the porch.

Sam is bathed in the flickering yellow light of the kerosene lamp beside him. His hair flops down into his face no matter how many times he pushes it back. He’d gone through a growth spurt this summer that finally put him taller than Dean, but he looks so much smaller and younger than he is in this moment. His knobby shoulders and ankles poke out from a tank top that hangs too loose on his chest and a pair of pajama pants that are far too short.

Dean sits down beside his little brother, laying the shotgun against the stair railing. They don’t speak at first, choosing instead to watch the stars begin to blink into sight. The few remaining lightning bugs of the summer fly lazily through the yard, winking their lights in time with the crickets that are singing in the grass.

“I was listening to the radio,” Sam says eventually, pulling his legs up a step closer to the rest of his body. “A couple cities were hit in Asia and one in Canada, but nothing close to us.”

“There was that one in Nebraska last week.”

“Yeah, but not recently enough to slow Mom and Pa down today. They shouldn’t be this late.”

Dean shrugs, trying not to let on that Mary and Samuel’s tardiness terrifies him. He’s twenty years old, damn it, he shouldn’t need to hold his mother’s hand. But hell if he doesn’t want to right now, if only to reassure himself that she’s safe.

“They’re fine, Sammy. There’s no power to run fancy machines anymore, it probably just took a while to get Pa a thorough check. Plus, I can’t really see Pa letting a doctor anywhere near him without a whole hell of a lot of bitching first.”

Sam cracks a small smile. “Yeah. Bet they had to track down their youngest nurse just so he’d be nicer.”

“Exactly,” Dean laughs, reaching over to ruffle his brother’s hair. “They’ll be home soon. You should probably go to bed before they get back and Mom sees that you’re still up.”

Sam makes a face and pulls away from Dean, picking up the kerosene lamp as he stands. He kicks Dean’s hip gently as he turns around and crosses the porch, but pauses with the screen door open to look back at Dean.

“Hey, are you coming?”

“Nah, I’m gonna wait up a little longer. I’ll meet you downstairs when I’m ready.”

“Ugh,” Sam says, and Dean can practically see him crinkling his nose in disgust without even needing to turn around. “I forgot she said to sleep in the basement. It’s gross, and those cots are super uncomfortable.”

“You’ll be alright, you big baby.”

“There are spiders the size of your face down there!”

“Don’t be a bitch and they’ll leave you alone.”

“Jerk.”

Dean grins and bites down on a laugh. “Night, Sammy.”

He isn’t sure if Sam heard him or not until he hears his brother mumble a quiet “Goodnight, Dean” and the screen door eases closed. After a few minutes of pattering around the house, Sam descends into the basement, and Dean is left with only the sounds of nature to keep him company.

The night starts out clear, but as the lightning bugs cease their blinking and the crickets slowly stop singing, clouds block out the stars. Sometimes the moon will shine feeble light on the barn roof, but it quickly fades each time. The night air washes in with the dew, cool and light in comparison to the sticky August heat.

There is a sick feeling in his gut when Dean realizes that it’s the middle of the night and Mary and Samuel still haven’t returned. Something must have happened to them. Dean can’t shake the thought that they could have been attacked, that it would be his fault if they were caught outside the farm sometime that day. He can’t sit still anymore. He grabs the gun as he stands and crosses the front porch with two quick strides, wrenching the screen door open with the intention of running to the living room to turn on the radio.

And that’s when it happens.

It starts with a scream from far out in the woods, a bloodcurdling sound that Dean recognizes as a fox calling to her kits. In the barn, the cattle begin lowing. They are followed soon after by whinnies from the horses, goats bleating, chickens clucking wildly in their coop.

Dean turns away from the door in time to see a swarm of dark shapes fly past the house. High pitched chattering tells him that it’s the bats that live in the old silo, and then there are larger shapes swooping through the air as well; birds and owls have joined the bats, all calling to each other but none behaving as they should.

Even the bugs are active again now, and the barn cats are yowling from the hayloft. The noise and movement is cacophonous and unsettling. It’s as if every living creature around the farm has awoken into a blind panic.

As suddenly as it started, it stops. Not even the leaves on the oak tree are rustling. Dean steps closer to the porch railing, straining his eyes to see through the dark. There is no sound. Dean had never realized how loud the night is meant to be until now.

With an awful, shaking boom, the sky tears open behind the clouds. A ball of blue and white fire streaks over the barn and lands in the wheat field with a thunderous crash. The impact shakes the earth, and Dean can feel the foundations of the house tremble beneath his feet. Silence reigns for what seems like an eternity, and then the night carries on as if nothing has happened.

But Dean can see the flames in the wheat, flickering and cooling from white to a soft orange. In the middle of the fire, something pulses with a pale blue light. The light fades, and then the only evidence that anything has happened is the hole in the clouds where a swatch of bright moonlight shines through.

Dean slings the shotgun over his shoulder and descends the porch steps, work boots slipping once on the dewy grass before he regains his footing. He walks quickly and quietly, both intrigued and on edge. He’s no Sam when it comes to academics, sure, but he’d been decent enough in school and space had been interesting; he’s never heard of a meteor like this.

The night air is different by the time Dean reaches the wheat field. It feels heavy against his skin, charged with some foreign energy that makes the hair on his arms stand on end. It smells of lightning and scorched earth. The wheat dances to either side of the long furrow that’s been carved into the ground, swayed by a gentle breeze. There are a few remnant flames that Dean has to stomp out on his way towards the still-smoking crater at the center of the field.

Dean can feel his pulse speed up with each step he takes closer to the crater. There is a black mass at the center of it that fills Dean with an inexplicable longing to come closer at the same time as he struggles to pull himself away. The mass shifts just as the moon emerges from the clouds overhead, widening the arc of pale light and washing over the mass.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. The movement, he realizes, is the rippling of massive feathers, ever so slightly iridescent in the moonlight. Whatever this thing is, it certainly isn’t a meteor, and it’s still alive.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, the exclamation escaping his lips before he can stop himself. He creeps closer, unthinking as he begins to reach out a shaking hand.

In the time it takes him to blink, the mass moves, and Dean finds himself paralyzed at the sight of a pair of glowing eyes. He isn’t able to jerk his hand back in surprise before the creature lets out an ear-splitting screech and lurches forward.

Instinctively, Dean flinches away. The gun slips from his shoulder and he lets it fall in favor of ducking his head and covering his ears. There comes the sound of a loud bang as the gun hits the ground and fires on impact.

By the time the ringing in his ears starts to fade, the only sound Dean can hear is his own thundering heartbeat. He cracks one eye open, wondering if he died, or if this is actually all just a dream, and is greeted by the sight of the creature curled into a black mass once again. Its eyes begin to glow again as clouds move around the moon, and Dean realizes that they reflect the light like a cat. The feathers don’t cover the creature’s entire body as he had first thought, they just form enormous wings that the creature has wrapped around itself. It seems almost as if it is trying to hide.

It looks scared.


	4. Chapter 3

The creature watches Dean with wide, unblinking eyes, and it isn’t until Dean’s own eyes begin to water that he realizes he has been doing the same. He squeezes his eyes shut, half expecting all of this to be a hallucination when he opens them again.

It isn’t.

It’s hard to tell in the dark, especially with the wings covering most of the creature’s face, but Dean thinks that it has black hair- shimmering faintly in the moonlight just like the feathers. For the most part, the creature looks human. Except, of course, the eyes and wings and hair and god knows what else that Dean hasn’t seen yet.

He swallows hard, steeling himself, and slowly lowers his hands from beside his ears, acutely aware of the way the creature’s keen eyes follow his every movement. He takes one slow step forward and the creature screams, its wings flaring up on either side of it. Dean winces at the shrill, sharp ringing sound, but does not cover his ears again. After a moment, the wings fall. The creature does not try to hide again, choosing instead to stare at Dean with something akin to confusion in its eyes.

Dean raises his hands in a surrender gesture. “Easy. I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he says, trying to keep his voice soft.

The creature’s wings puff up, but it doesn’t make any other noises. Dean gets the feeling that it isn’t consciously controlling the way its feathers are ruffling. Only now does he realize that the right wing is missing a large section of primary feathers. The ones that remain are stuck at odd, painful angles. That explains the creature crash-landing in the wheat, at least.

With the wings out of the way, Dean can see that the pale blue light he had seen earlier is actually coming from the creature. More specifically, it is shining faintly out of the creature’s numerous wounds. The light shines brightest from a gash across the creature’s right side, mixed with the blood that has drenched its skin.

The light seems to be pulsing slowly, completely at odds with the creature’s shallow, labored breathing. It looks so human that Dean almost feels wrong thinking of it as a creature, especially when it is injured so badly. Before he can really think about what he’s doing, Dean is kneeling in front of the creature and extending a hand.

“My name is Dean,” he murmurs, not entirely sure that the creature can understand what he’s saying. “I’m here to help.”

For a moment, everything is deathly still and silent, and Dean begins to worry that he’s gone crazy, talking to strange winged humanoids that crash-land in the wheat field. But the creature slowly, tentatively reached towards Dean’s hand, its wide eyes still trained cautiously on his face.

The moment their fingers touch, a world of light and color explodes in Dean’s mind. Images flash behind his eyelids, of storms and mountains and oceans and fields and streams and city lights and black smoke and fire and blood and blinding blue light.

Dean loses his balance as he jerks his hand away again, landing hard on the scorched soil and scrambling backwards. His chest heaves as he stares wildly at the creature, mind reeling as he tries to comprehend what he’s just seen. The creature looks more tired than afraid, now, its eyes beginning to droop closed and its breathing coming shallower and faster as it lists to the side, obviously struggling to keep itself upright.

It locks eyes with Dean, and now that the moonlight isn’t hitting it directly in the face, Dean can see that its eyes are the deepest, most intense blue that he’s ever seen. His breath catches in his throat.

“Help,” it says, and collapses.

A beat passes in which Dean thinks that it has died, before he realizes that it has just passed out. He gingerly taps the back of its hand with his fingertips, wondering if he will be bombarded with pictures again. Apart from a slight electrifying tingle from the creature’s soft skin, nothing happens.

“Holy shit,” Dean murmurs, “holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit_!”

He pushes himself to his feet and turns in a slow circle, running his hands through his hair and letting out a long breath as he considers his options. If he leaves the creature here in the field overnight, it will very likely die. He can’t take it inside for fear that it might actually be dangerous and hurt Sam. It may also die in there, actually, if its wounds are left untreated. Which leaves the barn, Dean supposes, where he can both hide and supervise the creature while he tends to its wounds.

Dean slings the gun back over his shoulder once he’s made up his mind about what to do with the creature. He soon realizes that moving it is far easier said than done, however, what with the fact that it has the body of a man nearly the same size as Dean. Oh, and the weight of two massive wings, and the added challenge of far more wounds than Dean had originally thought. This would have been so much quicker if the tractor were still running, Dean things, albeit much less civil than carrying the creature.

By the time the reach the barn, Dean has to stop for a break before hefting the creature into the hayloft. While the loft is the most secretive place in the barn, it certainly isn’t a good long-term hiding spot. He’ll have to address that at another time- at this point, Dean is just hoping there isn’t too obvious of a blood trail into the barn.

Dean grabs a kerosene lamp and two boxes of veterinary supplies from the tack room to take into the loft with him. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs a spare horse blanket as well. One of the goats bleats at him as he passes, and a cat unfurls itself from the straw beside the goat, giving her a rather annoyed look.

The cat yawns as it stretches and then follows Dean up to the loft, padding drowsily behind him with a sputtering purr. She weaves around his ankles, meowing loudly and trying to get his attention, but when the light from the lamp falls onto the unconscious creature, the cat freezes in place. Dean doesn’t notice that she’s stopped until he hears a low, alarmed growl behind him.

The cat is staring at the creature, ears pinned back, tail puffed out, and spine arched up. Dean sighs and moves closer to the creature so he can begin setting up his makeshift work station- vet boxes to the side, just inside the circle of light from the lamp, and hay chaff scattered underneath the horse blanket to provide padding for the creature.

“Muffin, shut up,” Dean says, trying to position the creature on the blanket without causing too much more harm. “It’s not going to hurt you, you don’t need to freak out about it. Seriously, cat, hush! I don’t want it freaking out if it wakes up!”

Muffin lets out a short, sheepish chirp of a meow, letting her tail settle, but she doesn’t calm any. She watches from just outside the ring of light, pacing between the vet boxes and the stacks of hay as Dean meticulously patches the creature’s wounds and cleans the dirt and soot off of its soft skin.

It strikes Dean once again how incredibly human this creature looks. Now that Muffin has realized it isn’t going to make any sudden movements, she has begun to regard the creature with the same morbid curiosity that she does with dead birds, snuffling around its feet and making small chirruping noises. Dean scowls and waves a hand at her.

“Go on, shoo, you little monster! Really, Muffin, this thing could probably kill you just by looking at you, stop trying to lick it!”

Eventually, Dean has to reach over and scoop Muffin into his arms, the mottled tortoiseshell cat purring the entire time. Dean observes the creature for a while, absently scratching Muffin’s ears. It’s wearing clothing, or what’s let of clothing, that looks like it could have been some sort of uniform before whatever happened to the creature. It doesn’t seem to have been attacked by any sort of animal, judging by how precise all of its wounds are. That is, of course, with the exception of the missing chunk of wing. That particular injury looks as though someone- or some_thing_\- had grabbed hold of the creature and torn it apart bare-handed.

Dean sighs, adjusting his hold on Muffin so he can reach out and run a hand over the bandage he’d wrapped around that massive wing. He’d thought that the creature would have woke, screaming, by the time he tried to clean its wings, but it sleeps on even now, giving no indication that it will return to consciousness any time soon.

“Maybe I should stop calling it ‘it’,” Dean muses aloud to Muffin. “It can’t be that different from people if it asked for help, can it?”

He moves Muffin to the floor beside him despite her protesting meows. The kerosene lamp isn’t as good as daylight, but it is enough to study the creature’s face. Dean is sure that unconscious people are supposed to look peaceful, but the creature still looks like it’s in pain. Apart from the grimace, scrapes, and bruises, its skin is soft and unblemished. It really doesn’t seem to be much older than Dean, if it is actually older at all.

The sound of birds chirping and the roosters crowing back and forth draws Dean’s attention away from the sleeping creature. The sun is beginning to break over the horizon, its pale light barely reaching the tops of the trees. The cattle are beginning to wake on the lower floor of the barn. Dean can hear them lowing softly to one another.

He snuffs out the kerosene lamp, groaning as he stretches. Muffin does the same, though Dean is pretty sure that she’s just mocking him. He tosses hay down to the cattle first, then to the goats and horses as well. It’s a little earlier than they’re used to eating, but Dean figures he may as well do the barn chores while he’s here.

Dean half expects Muffin to stay beside the creature and keep watch, but she happily trots around the barnyard as he feeds everyone, lets them out to pasture, and collects the eggs from the chicken coop. She stops following him only once he returns to the hay loft to retrieve the lamp and vet boxes. The creature is still unconscious on its makeshift bed, the soft rise and fall of its chest the only indication that it’s still alive.

Dean shoos another of the barn cats off the steps as he returns to the front porch. His entire body feels heavy, as if the weight of the world has settled into his limbs. He plops onto the swing, gun cradled in his arms, and realizes that he’s been awake all night. And the truck has not returned.

Dean blinks awake slowly to the feeling of a hand carding through his hair and his mother’s voice speaking quietly nearby. At some point, he’s slouched over, and now his head rests on something considerably softer than the wooden bench. The gun is not in his hands, and it’s this realization that startles him into opening his eyes and sitting up.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Mary says, a smile in her voice to match the one on her lips. There’s a damp spot on her knee where Dean had been drooling.

“Did you go in the barn?”

Dean blurts the question before his mind can catch up to his mouth and immediately regrets that those words are the first he’s saying to his mother when she’s been missing all night. A crease appears in Mary’s brow. She glances over her shoulder and Dean notices the other woman for the first time. She’s leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed over her chest.

“No, honey, we just got home a few minutes ago. Why? Is everything alright?”

“Yeah! Yeah, of course. Don’t worry about it.” Dean pushes himself the rest of the way upright and stifles a yawn. He nods at the unfamiliar woman. “Who’s that?”

“I’m Ellen,” the woman says, sounding almost as exhausted as she looks. “We ran into each other outside Lawrence. Mary offered us a place to stay.”

Dean looks between them. “Us?”

Mary pats Dean’s hand gently. “Come on inside, honey, we’ll explain everything over breakfast.”

Ellen pushes away from the porch railing, wincing as she does so. She favors her left foot as she walks, allowing Mary to lead her and Dean into the dining room. Two blonde teenagers are seated at the table, one with a mullet and the other with a mess of long curls pulled into a messy bun. A pan of scrambled eggs sits in the center of the table, still steaming, beside a stack of toast and a plate of bacon. Thumping footsteps on the stairs herald Sam’s arrival before he even appears in the doorway.

“Dude,” he blurts the moment he catches sight of Dean, “did you die or something? You said you’d come down soon and never showed.”

“I kept watch,” Dean mutters.

Now that he’s awake, he wants nothing more than to run out to the barn and make sure he didn’t hallucinate the whole night. But if he didn’t make it all up- and he’s pretty sure he didn’t- he doesn’t want anyone to follow him into the hayloft. If it really was all real, he could be harboring something other-worldly. Something dangerous.

Dean forces himself to play it cool. He nabs a piece of bacon from the plate, wincing at the heat, and waves it vaguely between the two newcomers before he bites it as he sits down.

“So who’re you two?”

Mary gently smacks the back of Dean’s head and takes a seat beside him. “Don’t be rude.”

The boy with the mullet sniggers and elbows the girl, who shoots him a vicious glare. “Hear that?” he whispers. “You gotta play nice.”

Ellen sighs and sits at the last place around the table. “Ash, don’t start a fight. We’ve all been on the road a long time, we’re all tired. We don’t need to be agitated with each other when we finally have a place to rest.”

Ash clears his throat and sheepishly looks down at his plate. “Sorry, Ellen.”

The girl meets Dean’s gaze across the table. She looks like she’s seen hell and fought tooth and nail to claw her way back out. Her blue eyes flick over to Ellen momentarily and then settle back on Dean. She doesn’t say anything.

Once everyone has food on their plates and has started eating, Mary breaks the awkward silence.

“Sam, you’ve already met everyone. Dean, you know Ellen. This is her daughter, Jo, and Ash.”

Dean nods to them, mouth full of eggs. Sam glances between his mother and the newcomers, chewing slowly and looking like he’s considering something. He washes his mouth out with a swig of fresh milk.

“So… what happened, anyway?”

Ellen pushes at the pile of eggs on her plate with a fork and looks to Mary as if asking permission to answer Sam’s question. Dean catches Mary eyeing him and Sam before she nods, almost imperceptibly. The creases around Ellen’s eyes tighten.

“My husband and I owned a bar in Nebraska, right near the South Dakota border. Business never was the greatest, but after the war started we got refugees passing through. None of ‘em ever stayed long, but they were always coming and going and sharing news. Up until about a month ago, at least. The Roadhouse was close to the center of the impact zone when the attack happened. There were angles and demons all over the damn place, killin’ innocent people that got caught in the fight.

“We managed to get out fine, but Bill went back in. He wanted to help. Wanted to rescue anyone who couldn’t rescue themselves. Damn fool. He never came back out. We camped out as close as we dared for days. The Roadhouse burned, the town was leveled, Bill… we couldn’t find him. Those winged bastards ended up taking everything from us.”

Sam looks vaguely sick after Ellen’s story. Ash wolfs down the last of his toast so he has a free hand to reach over and squeeze Ellen’s shoulder.

“We waited around for about a week after that,” he says, and Ellen lays her hand over top of his. “Tried to find everyone that could be found. Then we started moving south, y’know, tryin’ to get away from it all. We was just outside of Tonganoxie ’bout midday yesterday when it all happened again. Angels, demons, the whole apocalyptic wings and smoke shit.”

“We probably should have stuck around and tried to help, but we were already past the city when it happened, so we kept walking.”

Ellen speaks in such a tired voice that Dean begins to wonder how long it has been since she slept. She and Ash trade off talking about their mad dash from Tonganoxie to Lawrence, where they ran into Mary and Samuel. Jo spends the entire time tearing strips of bacon into increasingly tiny pieces and contributes nothing to the conversation.

“Alright,” Mary says eventually. “We should probably get this all cleaned up.”

Ellen stands and makes a move to help, but Mary waves her away.

“You three go get some rest. Sam can show you around the house, Dean and I will manage down here.”

“Thank you, Mary. Truly. I don’t know what we would have done without your family’s help.”

Mary smiles softly at Ellen and nods once, then shoos her with a gentle laugh. Dean can hear Sam talking with Ash and Ellen as they head through the old farmhouse, but Jo still does not speak. Dean waits until Mary has begun to heat water for dishes on the gas stove and the platters have been cleared from the table before he asks the question that’s been on his mind all morning.

“Are you sure we can trust them?”

Mary shrugs and wets a sponge in the still-warming water. “Only time will tell, honey. But I don’t think we need to worry. They seem like good people.”

A comfortable quiet settles between them as they wash and dry the dishes. Mary drains the dirty water when they’ve finished and Dean slowly dries the last bowl with the now-damp towel. Mary leans against the counter to watch as he places the bowl back in the cupboard, a small smile on her lips.

“Mom… do you think angels are actually killers?”

The question slips out before Dean can really think about what he’s asking. The image of massive black wings shimmering in the moonlight flashes through his mind. Mary frowns as she considers her answer.

“I think many people have lost their homes and loved ones. I think Ellen and Jo and Ash lost the only family they had. Beyond that, I don’t know what to think. Why, baby? Is something the matter?”

“Uh… no. No, it’s fine. I’m fine, Ma. Just thinking.”

“Alright. Listen, I’m sorry your grandpa and I weren’t home when we said we would be yesterday. The truck finally broke down. Bobby helped us get it over to his place, but he’s not sure he can get it to run again. Said you’re welcome to go take a crack at it whenever you want to.”

Dean thinks of the creature in the barn and grimaces. He shakes his head quickly. “No, there’s plenty I should be doing here already. I don’t need to try and fix the truck. Besides, if Bobby can’t get it going, I won’t be able to.”

Mary smiles softly and reaches over to squeeze Dean’s hand. “You and I both know that isn’t true. You can do anything you set your mind to, honey.”

“…Right. Thanks, Mom. Hey, what did the doctors say about Pa? Is he gonna be alright?”

“He’s, um… he’s sick. I- I think it’s something we should wait to discuss with Sam. You boys should hear it from your grandpa, not from me.”

Dean can feel his heart sinking like a boulder into his gut, burning the entire way. The only reason for Mary to withhold information is along the lines of ‘say goodbye’. The last time she did this, she served John divorce papers three days later. Dean knows Mary wouldn’t lie to him if he asked, but if she’s avoiding the subject, Dean isn’t sure he wants to know exactly why.

He nods once and Mary brushes her thumb over the back of his had before she releases him with a sigh. “I’m going to check on Pa. You coming?”

“No, Mom, I… I’m okay. I think I gonna take a walk. Should- should I go help Sam first?”

“I think he can manage Ellen alone, sweetie. You go enjoy yourself.”

Mary pats his cheek once and turns away. Dean lingers in the kitchen until she has gone, staring absently at the window above the sink. The old yellow curtains are stained and sun-faded, just wide enough to brush against the wooden trim. The bread box sits open left of the sink, displaying the last loaf and a half of bread. They’ll have to make more soon, Dean supposes. They had three loaves yesterday- the apocalypse has already made it difficult to keep food on the table and even with all the farm’s resources, Dean fears that Ellen’s arrival with Jo and Ash will stretch them thin. Not to mention the _thing_ hidden away in the hayloft.

Dean’s starting to think saving the creature may not have been the best idea in the world.


	5. Chapter 4

Dean manages to leave through the back door and make it outside without being noticed. He sneaks a head of broccoli from the garden, as well as a fresh peach and two early apples from the orchard, and wraps his loot in an old cheesecloth with a half loaf of bread. He tucks the bundle under his shirt, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the house as he makes his way to the barn.

One of the hens clucks unhappily as he shoos her away from the open barn door and the precious cat food that lies just inside. Dean makes a face at the protesting chicken and grabs a small bucket from the feed room to fill with water from the hand-pump well in the barnyard, careful not to spill as he hauls it past the goats and up into the hayloft. Muffin is sprawled atop a vet box- apparently he hadn’t grabbed both of them earlier- purring as she watches him struggle.

Dean takes a deep breath to steady himself before he turns away from Muffin, wriggling his nose to dislodge the faint tickle of dust motes floating on stale air. His heartrate picks up at the sight; the old horse blanket spread open on the loft floor, stained with dark patches of blood, and no creature to be seen. Well, shit.

Dean moves slowly towards the blanket, heart hammering in his chest and forcing the air from his lungs. He touches his fingers to the rough, fraying edge of the old blanket, trying to convince himself that he has no reason to be freaking out. After all, the creature is gone. Maybe last night wasn’t real. Maybe it really was just a horrible dream.

Then again, if it was a dream, the blanket wouldn’t be spread here. Wouldn’t be covered with patches of the creature’s blood. Wouldn’t be accompanied by a box of veterinary supplies. Dean rubs his hands against his jeans and squeezes his eyes shut as if that will help him think. When he opens them again, moments later, it is to the sight of the creature’s unnatural glowing eyes blinking at him out of the darkness at the other end of the hayloft.

“Shit!” Dean yelps, crashing to the floor as he loses his balance.

The eyes glint and disappear in a flash at the resulting noise. Muffin meows from her lazy perch on the box but doesn’t bother to move. Dean curses under his breath and struggles back to his feet, crossing the loft instead of brushing the hay chaff from his back.

He finds the creature wedged against the wall between two stacks of hay, cowering as far from the light as it can manage. It stares at him as he cautiously inches closer, until he is able to make out the way it clutches its side and one wing hangs loose while the other is drawn tight to its body.

Then it opens its mouth and emits the same awful ringing scream as last night. Dean winces as stops in his tracks, trying to resist the urge to cover his ears. When he doesn’t move closer, the creature stops screeching and regards him with an almost surprised expression. He takes a couple steps backward for good measure, work boots clunking on the wooden floor, and raises his hands to show that they are empty.

“Easy,” he murmurs, desperately trying to remember how he managed to calm it down in the wheat field. “Can you move?”

The creature blinks but does not respond. Dean waits a few heartbeats before letting his breath out in a whoosh and kicking himself mentally.

“Look at me. This is ridiculous. What am I doing? Standing here like an idiot and talking to something that shouldn’t even be real. I mean, can you even understand me?”

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the creature nods. A moment later, it nods again, more confidently this time. Dean raises a startled eyebrow and huffs a breath.

“No shit. Really? Huh. Cool. Well, can you, then? Move, I mean.”

The creature nods again.

“Okay, good. Look, I got some food and water for you, it’s just- god, I don’t know what you eat. _Do_ you eat?”

There comes the sound of a soft puff of air, and for a moment it almost looks like the creature starts to smile. It is immediately followed by a sneeze and a short burst of the shrill ringing as the creature winces and presses its hands harder against its side. Dean frowns.

“I can look at that. If- if you want me to, I guess? I tried to patch you up last night, but I don’t…. y’know, I’m not really sure… what… you _are_?”

The creature blinks once and extends a trembling hand, painstakingly fearful in its movements. At first, Dean isn’t sure what’s happening. When the creature keeps its hand in place, he realizes that it’s reaching for him, just as it had last night. He eyes the outstretched fingers warily.

“You’re not gonna zap me again, are you?”

With no answer given, Dean heaves a sigh and brushes their fingers together.

The contact is nothing like the bolt of electricity between them in the field. This time, Dean is able to register how cold the creature’s skin feels despite the cloying summer heat before the images flood his mind. They come more clearly now; short bursts of colored light, massive wings, pressed uniforms, blue light swirling and pulsing and glowing, black feathers shimmering iridescent.

Dean clenches his eyes shut and rubs at his face the second the creature pulls away again. His breath sticks in his throat, dread settling like a brick of ice in his gut and prickling the hair at the nape of his neck. He retreats to the middle of the loft, trying and failing to squash the swell of panic coursing through his veins.

“You’re an angel,” he gasps.

“Do not call me that!”

The creature lunges from its hiding place as it speaks, looking almost as panicked as Dean feels. He barely keeps himself from screaming at the sound of its gravelly voice.

“What the fuck?!” Dean squawks the exclamation, green eyes bulging. “You can talk? I wasn’t going crazy last night, you asked me for help! You- you can fucking _talk_!”

The creature has the good grace to look ashamed of itself after Dean’s outburst, but does not apologize. Dean paces a circle around the hayloft, running his hands through his hair as he frantically attempts to process the past thirty-odd seconds. Finally, he gives a definitive nod and turns to face the creature.

“You _are_ and angel-” the creature visibly winces at the word “-and you _can _talk, but I can freak out about that later, cause right now you need to eat- do angels need to eat?” Dean waits for the creature to nod before continuing. “You need to eat, and you need to let me check those bandages. I don’t want to be responsible if you wind up dying from an infection.”

He strides purposefully across the loft to grab the water bucket and bundled cloth of pilfered food. Muffin gives a protesting meow at the removal of the bundle, which she had been using as a pillow since Dean set it down. Dean makes a face at her and turns to find the angel standing exactly where he left it, looking like a lost, confused puppy.

It looks like Sam had, standing outside the doors of the high school on the day the federal government released a statement saying it was no longer safe to send children to school. When Dean had picked him up, Sam had still been processing the meaning of that statement. By the time they got to the farm, Sam knew that his dreams of law school had been crushed.

Dean curses himself for giving in to his instinct to help people as he moves to the center of the loft and places the bucket beside the horse blanket, then gestures towards the angel. “C’mon, then. Sit down. You’re going to eat and I’m gonna check those wounds.”

The angel doesn’t move at first. Just when Dean thinks it’s going to ignore him, it shuffles forward and lowers itself to the floor. Its movements are awkward and jerky. Dean tries not to think about the bruises that litter its body. He kneels across from it and places the cheesecloth between them so it falls open to reveal the bread, broccoli, and fruits. The angel takes the peach gingerly and sniffs it before giving it a tentative lick.

“…Okay. You- you just bite into that and stay put for a second.”

Dean scoots closer and closer to the angel until he is able to inspect some of the smaller, unbandaged wounds, blue eyes boring into him the entire time. The angel flinches away when he reaches for one of the bandages on its arm. Dean rocks back on his heels with a frustrated huff only to find that the angel is wearing a similarly disgruntled expression.

“What?”

The angle regards him for a long moment, seemingly considering its answer. Finally, it looks down at the uneaten peach in its hands.

“Hurts,” it says, and as it speaks Dean realizes it has a slight accent, completely unplaceable. “There is pain. Your hands cause the pain to worsen. I would prefer if you could refrain from this activity.”

Dean stares at it incredulously. “You _do_ realize how messed up you are, right? You just about bled out in the wheat field last night. If you don’t let me help with this, it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more when it gets infected.”

“… I suppose.”

Blue eyes flick up to meet green momentarily, and then the creature turns its attention to the small pile of food and the bucket of water. Dean works quickly and quietly to clean each wound and replace the bandages. A few of the deeper cuts seem to glow faintly, but Dean is sure he’s imagining it until he unwraps the bandage around the angel’s torso to reveal the gaping slash across its side.

Pale blue light pulses from within the angel’s body, shining faintly past the bloodied flesh. Dean gets the sense that this light is, in some way, the angel itself; almost as if the body he is repairing is merely a means to an end in a physical world. The light _sings_\- Dean can feel it resonating with something deep within himself as he presses his fingers close to the angel’s skin to stitch the gash together. He is careful as he washes the area afterward, trying to ignore how tense the angel is, how rigidly it sits each time he applies even the slightest pressure.

“So, you never really clarified… _are_ you an angel?”

The angel’s nose wrinkles. It finishes chewing a mouthful of broccoli as Dean begins unwinding a clean roll of bandages to protect the stitches.

“Yes. I would prefer if you could refrain from using that word, however.”

“Why?” Dean waits for the angel to answer, but it says nothing. He ties off the bandage with a sigh. “Alright, fine. Can I ask you something else?”

The angel shrugs, tearing off a chunk of bread with its teeth. Dean watches it eat, ravenous, as he considers how to organize his thoughts into a coherent sentence.

“People say that this- this apocalypse, all this death and destruction and shit, they say it’s some kind of holy war. Is it true?”

“I would not refer to it as holy. This was never meant to come to your realm of existence. But… yes. I suppose it is. Lucifer and Michael have torn the veil between our worlds and we are unable to return home. This is a fight that should never have involved your people.”

Dean carefully winds the dirty bandage and sets it aside so he can wash it later. There’s no use in throwing away good cloth in an apocalypse, even if he isn’t sure how to rid it of angel blood. For a while, the only sound in the loft is the rustle of hay chaff as Muffin twitches her tail. Outside, one of the horses whinnies, and downstairs a goat rustles through the straw bedding in its pen. The angel watches closely as Dean crosses the loft to dig through one of the vet boxes. It chews a mouthful of bread slowly and lowers the loaf to its lap before it speaks.

“You are human.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. What’s it to ya, Feathers?”

The angel’s expression pinches as if it is confused. “… Feathers…? I-” it shakes its head before continuing, seemingly choosing to ignore the nickname. “You are human. You are angry that the armies of Michael and Lucifer have been unleashed onto your world. You know that I am- … that I am not human. Despite all this, you have chosen to help.”

Dean shrugs, tucking a bottle of livestock antiseptic under his arm. “What’s your point?”

“My point?”

“What are you trying to say?” Dean clarifies, grabbing another two rolls of bandages before closing the tote. He turns to find those blue eyes still boring into him.

“I do not understand your actions.”

Dean huffs a wry laugh. “Yeah, well, you ain’t the only one. Can you move your wing?”

The angel seems to almost shuffle in place but doesn’t answer. Its left wing stretches out toward the wall of the loft in an easy, graceful motion, but the right wing remains stationary and limp, though some feathers ruffle at awkward angles. Dean groans, running a hand through his hair.

“I was afraid of that. Alright, this is gonna hurt like hell, but I need to get that wing extended.”

The angel stiffens and shakes its head. “I will be fine. There is no need for contact with my wings.”

“Hate to break it to ya, Feathers, but if that’s your only objection, I gotta overrule it. Touched ‘em last night trying to keep you alive.”

The angel whips its head around to peer over its shoulder at the enormous wing, at the bloody bandages wrapped around a large section of missing feathers. It pales and its breath hitches at the sight. The angel’s eyes flick to Dean, then away, and it shakes its head again. Dean crouches beside it, waiting for it to look him in the eye before speaking in a low, soft tone.

“Look, I know you must be pretty terrified right now, and I’m sorry if I crossed some sort of boundary by touching your wings. But that one is half-mangled and looks painful as all get out, and I’m pretty damn sure that this is why I watched you crash land in the field. You’ve got some pretty gnarly stuff hidden under those bandages. I’m willing to bet you won’t be able to fly if that heals wrong.”

The angel looks conflicted. Feathers twitch along the ridge of its left wing like a cat raising its hackles. There is a short bout of shrill ringing, quieter than before, and the angel lets out a shaky breath.

“Fine. But if you could exercise caution, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“You got it, Feathers,” Dean mumbles.

He lowers himself onto his knees and shuffles closer to the angel’s side, trying to ignore the way its eyes bore into him as if assessing his every move for danger. Dean is sure it will take him longer to rebandage this wing than all the angel’s other wounds combined; it had taken quite a while last night, and now the angel is awake and able to feel pain. He picks his way through the process as gingerly as possibly, trying to minimize the angel’s pain as he extends the wing, unwinds the bandage, and exposes the mutilated flesh underneath.

He plucks the few broken feathers that remain, noting the way the angel’s jaw tightens and how it pointedly ignores him as he works. Dean has no idea how it manages to keep silent when he cuts away the dead, ripped flesh that he’d missed in the night to make healing easier. He sprays the entire section of the wing liberally with the livestock antiseptic before wrapping the whole thing with a snug bandage, noting the awkward limpness of the wing as he guides it back into place against the angel’s back.

Dean rocks back on his heels to admire his handiwork. Nearly close enough to brush their arms together, the angel is breathing shallowly through its nose, eyes unfocused and fingers clenched, white-knuckled, in the ruined fabric of its pants. Dean frowns.

“Feathers. Hey,” he murmurs, trying to draw the angel’s attention as gently as he can. When it meets his eyes, he gives a reassuring smile. “It’s over. I’m done.”

The angel nods curtly but does not manage to slow its breathing. Dean allows himself to tip back off his heels and settle cross-legged on the horse blanket with his knee barely knocking against the angel’s thigh. He sits there silently, drawing in deep, slow breaths, until the angel’s breathing matches his own.

Muffin chooses that moment to make her way over and climb into Dean’s lap, staring unblinkingly at the angel. She begins purring loudly soon after. The angel reaches a tentative hand towards her, and she butts her head against its fingers. Its chapped lips twitch into the tiniest of smiles. Dean clears his throat, absently petting Muffin as she continues to rub her face against the angel’s hand.

“Her name is Muffin.”

The angel doesn’t respond immediately. When it does, its eyes are once again locked onto Dean’s, and Dean finds that he can’t look away from that deep, intense blue.

“You are Dean.”

He startles slightly, but nods. The angel’s eyes light up. “How did you…?”

“You told me. Last night. You said you were going to help.”

“Oh.” Dean blinks a few times, green eyes wide. “I didn’t think you remembered anything from last night. You were pretty tore up- still are, Feathers.”

The angel’s expression scrunches in confusion. “Why do you call me that?”

“Well, I don’t know your name. Plus, you’ve got, like, a million feathers. Or… used to. What happened to you, anyway? Your wing, it’s… I mean, it’s a totally different injury than the rest. Not to pry, or anything, I just- … I kinda wish I knew what happened so I could be better at the whole ‘help’ thing.”

The angel purses its lips. Its eyes roam Dean’s face as if it is searching for something. Whatever it finds must be acceptable, because it extends a hand again. Dean is pleased to see that its fingers are no longer trembling.

“I cannot show you that and I would prefer not to speak of it. However, it is a human custom to clasp hands upon an introduction, yes? My name is Castiel.”

The angel’s accent is more prominent when it speaks its name, and there is the faintest of ringing in its voice. Dean snorts as he smothers a laugh and shakes its hand.

“I guess. Kinda formal for a barn, but sure. Also, we shake. Not _clasp_. Clasp sounds… weird.”

The angel frowns at Dean’s statement, brow creased in confusion, but it isn’t able to say anything more before there comes the sound of Sam’s voice calling Dean’s name, presumably from the front porch. He startles away from where he’s sitting and scrambles to his feet, cussing under his breath. Muffin meows plaintively and moves onto the angel’s lap, her displeased stare a sharp contrast to the angel’s perplexion.

“I’ll be back at sunset!” Dean calls, already halfway down the ladder. “Stay put! And don’t make any noise!”

Sam is waiting on the top step, more tightly folded in on himself than he had been last night in the kerosene light. He watches Dean approach from the barnyard with a disgruntled expression, blowing hair out of his face absently. As soon as Dean is close enough, Sam shoves himself to his feet.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, sounding entirely disinterested in whatever Dean’s answer is going to be.

Dean, in turn, momentarily ignores his brother’s question in favor of giving him a gentle shove as he climbs the steps. Sam glowers and pushes back.

“None of your beeswax, little brother. What’s up?”

“Pa’s awake. Mom wants us to talk to him. ‘As a family’, or whatever.”

Dean tries not to feel nervous and fails spectacularly. He pulls open the screen door and steps into the welcome cool of the house, holding it open just long enough for Sam to follow. He pauses at the base of the stairs to allow Jo to pass. She comes down trailing a hand on the bannister and staring at Dean coolly as she steps down, but still says nothing. She has a slightly haunted look about her, hair fraying from its bun, bruises on her jaw and neck nearly as dark as the bags below her eyes, which are filled by a hollow rage. Whatever she’s seen has broken her and she’s turned that hurt into anger. Dean makes a mental note to stay out of her way until that anger subsides a bit.

Once Jo has passed, Dean and Sam make their way to the end of the second-floor hallway where Samuel’s door is cracked open. Dean can hear faint voices but they’re coming from back in Mary’s room, not up ahead. He hesitates just long enough for Sam to bump into his back with a soft ‘oomf’.

This is not a conversation he wants to have.

Sadly, Mary knows her boys even when they’re trying not to make any noise. She calls them into the bedroom, where she is seated on the edge of the bed close to Samuel’s knees. She has the same nervous, flighty look about her as she had the night she told them about the divorce. Dean’s heart hammers behind his ribs.

Samuel coughs and clears his throat with a grimace. “Sit down, boys. Your mother’s threatened to whip my ass if we don’t talk about all this.”

“About all what, Pa?” Sam asks as he climbs onto the other side of the bed, and Dean’s gut twists; he’d forgot just how hard Mary had tried to keep this secret from Sam. Apparently she’d been successful.

Samuel draws in a long breath that wheezes all the way to his lungs. Dean frowns. Mary scrubs a hand over her face, looking like she’s on the verge of tears already.

“He’s sick,” Dean says, looking between his mother and her father. “Isn’t he? Really sick.”

Mary can’t even bring herself to nod. Samuel sits up straighter and awkwardly reaches for her hand. Sam pales slightly.

“What do you mean, ‘really sick’? Pa’s been coughing, that’s all. He’s fine.”

“It’s not just a cough, Sam. I have lung cancer.”

Dean’s breath leaves him so suddenly it feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He struggles to compose himself before Sam can see his fear. He knew Samuel was having health problems- he was the one who had forced him into going to a doctor- but he’d never thought it might be cancer. It takes a few tries for Dean’s vocal cords to start working again.

“What can we do?”

“You can keep the farm running, bout. I’ll be damned if it’s my line that ends the Campbell farm, even if I’m not there to see it.”

“Don’t talk like that, Pa,” Sam says, sixteen and still so sickeningly innocent to the cruelty of the world. “We can fight this.”

“It ain’t like that.”

Samuel sounds tired on some profound level. His voice is just as gruff as usual, if not more so; Dean knows him well enough to recognize resignation.

“How long?” he asks.

Mary makes a small, choked noise, and turns away with a hand to her mouth so Dean and Sam can’t see her tears. Dean feels them, though, dripping hot and fast and angry in his heart. Samuel’s fingers tighten around Mary’s hand. He doesn’t answer. Sam flinches back from the hard edge in Dean’s voice when he repeats the question.

“Pa. How long?”

Samuel clears his throat and looks anywhere but his grandson’s face. “They can’t test that sort of thing anymore, so-”

“_Damn_ it, Pa, how _fucking_ long do you have?”

Sam opens his mouth to chide Dean but Samuel waves a hand to cut him off. He wheezes out a long breath.

“A year, at most.”

“If you stay on bed rest,” Mary croaks, voice tight and trembling like a taut string.

“I’m taking over the farm,” Dean says, before anyone can say anything else. Samuel frowns, Mary sniffles, Sam looks at Dean like he’s insane. “I won’t take no for an answer, Pa. This is my farm now.”

“Dean,” Mary sniffles, wiping at her eyes, “that’s a lot of responsibility, honey, you- you can’t do that all alone. It’s not fair to ask of you.”

“You’re not asking, Mom, I’m telling. We all know that there’s no way in hell any of us can keep Pa on bed rest, so why try? If I take over the farm, that’s less work Pa has to think about while you force him to stay inside.”

Sam begins to nod slowly on Mary’s other side. “I guess it’s not a half bad idea. I think you should let him, Mom. And Pa, you can do all the small projects close to the house. When we beat this, you can do some heavy lifting again.”

Samuel looks between his grandsons as if he’s weighing his options- not that he’s actually been given any. After a moment of consideration, he nods, his dark eyes locked on Dean.

“Alright. But if I see you slacking-”

“Who’s slacking?” Dean asks, trying to pass off his stress and anxiety as playful confidence. “If the weather holds up, I bet we could get a third cutting of hay. Loft is full but there’s still room in a couple of the sheds.”

Samuel huffs. It isn’t a laugh and it isn’t pride, but it’s close enough to approval that Dean feels like he’s said the right thing. He only wishes he didn’t need to take away his grandfather’s livelihood like this. The whole situation feels like he’s condemning Samuel to a long, agonizing death, and suddenly Dean can’t take it anymore.

He nods once at Samuel and leaves the bedroom, barely managing to keep himself from slamming the door as he focuses on stilling his shaking hands. Nothing about this situation is fair, he thinks. Everything in his life is a thousand times worse for his mother. If Dean could take the pain away from her, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

The weight of the world finally settles onto his shoulders. He scrubs a hand over his face, fighting the tears pricking in his eyes and the horrible tightness in his chest. His legs feel like lead as he makes his way up to the attic. There’s a model car waiting patiently in its box to be assembled, resting precariously on the edge of the bed. Dean knocks it aside as he flops face-first into the pillows but doesn’t have time to feel guilty before sleep takes him.


	6. Chapter 5

Dean wakes, drenched in sweat, to sunlight streaming through his windows. It’s the low, hot light of late evening, and the air in the attic is stale and stagnant, thick with summer heat as Dean sucks in a disoriented breath. He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand against his eyes to get rid of the heavy sensation of sleep.

Pieces of model car are scattered on the floor, upended from the box he’d dropped before passing out. He stares at them for a while before deciding they aren’t worth his time and stepping over them to search through his drawers for clean clothes.

John had started giving Dean the various models when he was fourteen, likely thinking that assembling them would give Dean a quiet hobby. Too late Dean realized that the models were probably actually meant as peace offerings in the days before the divorce. The only model he’s ever assembled is the very first one John had given him, a replica of the ’67 impala that sat in the driveway of the green house for years as John slowly repaired it.

Dean stares at the tiny impala as he tugs on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt. When he was a kid, he’d always hoped that John would give him the car when he turned sixteen. He’s not sure when he stopped wanting the car; possibly around the same time that he received the model. He and John weren’t on speaking terms, exactly, when Dean had turned sixteen, what with the wedding and Kate’s pregnancy. Dean isn’t sure he could even accept the car now, if it were offered. It isn’t that he doesn’t adore the car, but more that there are too many memories of his father attached to it.

A yawn catches him off-guard and he stretches through it, making a face at the feeling of sweat dripping down his back. At this rate his clean shirt will be soaked through in a matter of minutes. Maybe clean clothes were a bad idea. Then again, he’s pretty sure his other shirt has patches of angel blood on it.

Shit, the angel. Dean swears under his breath. He has _got_ to stop forgetting the angel he’s hidden in the hayloft. If someone finds him before Dean can move him elsewhere, God knows what might happen. Dean really doesn’t want to concentrate on the possibility.

He snags an older t-shirt and a pair of ratty basketball shorts out of the drawer, figuring that it’s better than the shredded remains of cloth that hang off the angel’s shoulders now. He’s not really sure if the angel will accept the clothing, but it’s worth a try.

Downstairs, Mary and Ellen are seated on the couch discussing how they will finalize sleeping arrangements. Ash and Sam can be heard goofing around in the kitchen as they wash dishes from the dinner that Dean missed. Mary glances up as Dean steps off the bottom stair and waves.

“Sorry we ate without you, honey, but I didn’t want to wake you. We did leave a plate, though.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Ellen clears her throat, shifting in her seat. “Dean, we’d like to help out around the farm. Mary told us what you’re doing for your grandfather, and we need to earn our keep somehow, so just show us what to do.”

Dean tenses, massive black wings flaring up in his mind. He quickly shakes his head. “Just the garden is fine. I don’t know what Mom said, but I can handle everything else.”

“Nonsense.”

Ellen waves her hand dismissively just as Jo comes into the living room carrying a plate of food. She presses it wordlessly into Dean’s free hand and steps away, but doesn’t leave. Dean looks between her and Ellen uncomfortably.

“Uh… thanks, Jo. Really, Ellen, there isn’t much to do until harvest other than livestock and barn chores. It’s alright.”

“Well, then, Jo can help out with that. An extra set of hands never slows chores down. Why don’t you take her with you and show her around the barn?”

Dean tries not to cringe, unable to stop imagining the worst possible outcomes of the angel being discovered- especially by Jo, who has lost everything to this war. He nods, finally, unsure of what else to do or how to escape this situation.

“Tomorrow,” he says, desperate to give himself more time. “You all need to rest yet today. I can take y’all around the property tomorrow. And if Jo really wants to help with the animals, I’ll wake her up in the morning.”

Beside him, Jo shows no sign that she’s even heard him. When Ellen nods in agreement, she turns and disappears up the stairs. Mary seems pleased, so Dean slips away with the untouched plate and the old clothes. He detours to the orchard to grab two more peaches, then hesitates when he reaches the barn door, throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure he is alone before he climbs into the hayloft.

At first glance, it is empty, but after Dean hisses ‘Feathers?’ under his breath, a pair of glowing eyes wink at him from across the loft. The angel steps out from behind a tall stack of hay and ruffles the feathers on his good wing.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Feathers.”

“I do not understand why you have chosen to refer to me by that moniker rather than my name.”

Dean snorts and tosses him a peach. “I told you; Cas-whatever is-”

“Castiel.”

“- … right. It’s a mouthful. Cas, Feathers, those are easier. Quicker. They’re nicknames, man.”

Castiel studies him a moment before looking away and biting into the peach appreciatively. Dean settles on the horse blanket and sets the plate of food beside him so he can offer a hand to help Castiel lower himself to the floor. The angel practically falls into place across from Dean, almost as stiff and slow as he had been earlier in the day. Dean feels a twinge of guilt for leaving him here alone during the hottest part of the day, especially when he can’t leave the barn.

He holds up the t-shirt and shorts and shakes them out a bit, trying to distract himself. “I brought some clothes that you can wear instead of that dirty stuff.”

Castiel touches a hand to the dark cloth hanging from his chest. Hurt flashes across his face before he suppresses it. He looks conflicted when his eyes find Dean’s face again. Ultimately, however, he nods and reaches out to take the shorts. Dean tries hard to ignore the painful little noises he makes as he pulls them on.

“Thank you,” he says, so quietly Dean can barely hear him. He gestures vaguely to his back after Dean asks about the shirt. “There are ties. The back needs to allow for wing movement.”

“Hang on,” Dean mumbles, fishing in his pocket for his knife.

Of course the shirt would tie in the back. He wants to smack himself for not thinking about it. He fumbles in his pocket for his knife, mumbling a soft ‘hold up’ once he finds it. He cuts the bottom hem in three places, then sets the knife aside and tears the cloth by hand. When he’s done, the back of the shirt has been torn to accommodate Castiel’s wings and tie easily beneath each wing.

Castiel allows Dean to move around behind him and untie the shirt he’s already wearing. It’s knotted in more places than the t-shirt Dean has just modified, and Dean briefly wonders if that will be an issue. But Castiel doesn’t seem bothered by the cuts that Dean has made, so Dean helps him maneuver the old cloth around his wings and over his head so they can replace it with the new shirt.

The bruises are more apparent now than they had been before, a rainbow of blue and purple and green splayed out across Castiel’s fair skin. Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from reacting; the angel is so much worse off than Dean had been able to see either time he patched him up.

Together they manage to get the shirt over Castiel’s head, and Dean ties the ends around his wings, loosely enough that they won’t be uncomfortable. Castiel stretches his good wing, feathers ruffling in pleasure, and grimaces when the feathers in his right wing twitch involuntarily.

Dean chooses not to say anything, and they split the plate of food in relative silence. Near the end of their meal, there comes a scrabbling sound as Muffin hauls herself up the ladder. As soon as she’s got all four paws on the loft floor, she gives a plaintive meow. The smallest of smiles forms on Castiel’s lips as Muffin makes her way over, complaining loudly the entire way.

She purrs the moment Castiel reaches out a hand towards her. Dean watches the cat butt her head against Castiel’s fingers and weave her way around his back just so she can squirm her way into his lap from underneath the opposite arm. She narrows her eyes at Dean, actively leaning into Castiel’s hand as he pets her. Dean rolls his eyes.

“That cat used to love me, you know.”

Castiel hardly spares him a glance. “I suppose I should ask what changed.”

“Well, Feathers, the craziest thing happened. This weird dude crashed into my wheat field and he turned out to be just similar enough to a bird that the cat that adored me totally switched her loyalties.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you just have not showed enough love to her lately.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh? Good to know you ain’t afraid to talk shit.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow in confusion. He opens his mouth and Dean waves a hand to head off the inevitable question.

“Nevermind,” he says, and Castiel’s mouth snaps shut. “Anyhow, when it gets dark, we gotta get you outta here. You can’t stay up here in the loft forever, it isn’t safe.”

“I see. Thank you for your assistance and medical care,” Castiel murmurs, refusing to look away from Muffin.

Dean frowns. “Why are you- _oh_! Oh. No. No, Cas, I’m- I’m not kicking you off the farm. You just- I need to get you out of the barn before someone finds you.”

Castiel hums in understanding and nods. Muffin rolls over in his lap to start batting at his fingers playfully.

“Where will we go?”

Dean makes a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck and sighs.

“I don’t… I’m not sure.”

He allows himself to fall backwards into the hay chaff off the edge of the horse blanket and stares at the high wooden ceiling. In his periphery, he can see Castiel watching him. The angle makes his eyes flash in the low light. Somehow it’s the little things like this and the slight iridescence to Castiel’s hair that matches his feathers that make him seem less human to Dean than the wings themselves or the light that shines from the wound in his side.

Castiel leans closer and blinks owlishly above Dean, still absently playing with Muffin, who complains that his attention isn’t completely devoted to her.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking,” Dean replies, half-turning his head to lock eyes with Castiel.

It’s entirely too easy to get lost in Castiel’s eyes. They’re the purest, deepest blue Dean has ever seen. He isn’t sure if it would be better to compare them to the ocean or the sky. Maybe neither are good enough. The universe, perhaps. That’s what Castiel feels like; beautiful and mysterious and intriguing. Endless. Larger than life.

Muffin butts her head up between them and the moment is over, instantly buried beneath her cries for more attention. Dean reaches over to gently shove her face back. She purrs against the palm of his hand.

“I think I have an idea where you might be able to stay while you heal up. It’ll definitely need a little work to be liveable again, but at least it’s better than having to hide in this loft all the time. It’s kind of far, though. Do you think you can walk that much?”

Castiel’s feathers ruffle, giving him an indignant look. “I suppose the best way to find out is to try, is it not?”

“I guess. How long do you think it’ll take to get you totally patched back up?”

“I heal quicker than most humans do, under normal circumstances. After everything that has happened, however, I will need to wait for my Grace to recharge.”

Dean’s nose scrunches. “Your what?”

“Grace.”

Castiel looks away and leans back; Dean finds himself keeping the distance between them from growing by rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow.

“Grace,” he repeats, confused. “What is that? Like, the screeching thing you do?”

“What? I do not ‘screech’. To what are you referring?”

“Y’know, like- uhh… like… hm. The ringing, y’know, the-” Dean cuts himself off imitating the shrill sound he’s heard Castiel make off and on ever since the angel lunged at him among the flames in the wheat field.

Castiel watches him blankly. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I- I’m… you know that noise you make! You’ve got to know what I mean.”

“… Are you referring to my _voice_?”

Dean shakes his head vehemently. “No, man, your voice is- is _this_, what you sound like now. Deep, y’know, kind of gravelly. The noise is… uh… _shit_,” he murmurs, “I dunno. It’s really shrill.”

“No, Dean, my voice. My true voice. When I-”

Castiel’s words are interrupted by the sharp ringing. Dean barely resists the urge to cover his ears but manages to nod. Castiel stops making the noise, looking like he finally understands Dean’s original question.

“No, that is not my Grace. Not completely, anyhow. What you hear- the ringing, as you say- is my true voice. When I speak in my native language, Enochian, my Grace resonates, and because your human ears cannot comprehend it, you hear the ringing.”

Dean grunts in acknowledgement, brow creased in confusion as he tries to wrap his head around the concept. “So if the noise is your ‘true voice’ or whatever, your Grace is… the glowy shit?”

“‘Glowy,’” Castiel huffs, light. If Dean isn’t mistaken, the angel is amused by his attempts at guessing what he means by ‘Grace’.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Dean complains, though he can’t shake the thought that Castiel would have a wonderful laugh. “I’m trying to figure this out.”

“I know, Dean. Please continue.”

Below them, one of the goats bleats. Muffin’s ears prick up, and she meows as she scrambles away from Castiel, across the loft, and deftly down the ladder as only a cat can. Dean groans. It’s starting to seem like he’ll never manage a full conversation with the angel.

He scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh. “Hold that thought, okay? We’ll finish this when I get back.”

The cattle and horses have all meandered their way in from the back fields by the time Dean finishes putting out their food. One of the goats bleats pitifully as Dean passes to grab a bucket of water, the same that had interrupted his conversation with Castiel. He looks over with a sigh and sets the empty bucket down in the middle of the barn aisle.

“What do you want, Tilly?”

The goat butts her head affectionately against Dean’s thigh as he climbs into the pen. He manages to trap her between his legs so she can’t wiggle free as he runs a hand down her ankle. She doesn’t reach when he squeezes lightly, aside from attempting to eat his shirt, so he releases her with a pat on the flank.

“You’re fine, Tilly. Don’t step in no more gopher holes, got it? Now stop complaining and go bother the boys.”

Mary is coming down the barn aisle as Dean climbs back out of the goat pen. His boot catches on the top rail and he wobbles a moment before regaining his balance. Mary smiles gently as he steadies himself.

“H-hey, Ma!”

“Sorry to startle you, honey,” she says.

She’s wearing an old crocheted shawl despite the summer heat, and Dean knows that this isn’t about temperature; he remembers the Christmas that his grandmother had given Mary the shawl, and how much she had adored it. When Deanna passed away the following year, Mary had worn the shawl for a month straight. Dean’s heart clenches at the thought that she’s already started wearing it for Samuel.

“No, no, it’s fine, Mom, really. Just wasn’t expecting you. What’s up?”

Mary shrugs, arms wrapped tight around herself. “I thought I’d go for a walk around the yard and I wound up here. How’s Tilly’s leg?”

“She’s fine,” Dean starts, and is interrupted by the goat in question shoving herself against the rails of the pen. Mary shakes her head with a chuckle and steps closer to rub a hand over the coarse hair on Tilly’s forehead. Tilly, in turn, attempts to grab hold of Mary’s shawl before Dean scolds her. Mary sighs.

“What about you?” she asks quietly.

“What about me?”

“How are you holding up? I know you’ve been paying attention to your grandpa’s health for a while, but…”

Mary trails off with a faraway look in her eyes. Dean swallows the lump that has suddenly started forming in his throat. He lets out a long breath that he wishes would relax him.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It wasn’t supposed to be this.”

It wasn’t supposed to be cancer.

“I feel like you’ve been out of the house practically all day, baby. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Mary reaches out a hand to caress Dean’s cheek, searching his eyes for any kind of hurt. His heart breaks for her, so attentive to her children’s needs when she herself is suffering.

“I’m okay, Mom,” he murmurs, turning his face to press into the warmth of her soft skin. “I’m worried about you and Sam. But I’m okay.”

Mary’s lips press together in a flat line and her brow creases. For a moment it seems like she’s fighting tears. Then she squares her shoulders and steps back.

“Good. Now, I know you said you don’t want any help yet, but I’m your mother. You can’t tell me no. I can feed the cats and close up the chicken coop. You just make sure everyone has water.”

Dean chuckles and nods. “Okay, Mom. Whatever you say.”

“Oh, and don’t forget you’re teaching Jo where everything is in the morning. She and Ellen are going to stay in my room; you may need to wake them up.”

Dean knows he can’t protest to his mother, so he nods. They work together in silence and finish the barn chores before the sun dips too low in the sky, bathing the farm in a hazy sort of orange light. Dean comes up the barn aisle sweating after lugging buckets of water back to the horses. Mary meets him at the open door and extends a hand. He takes it readily and squeezes her fingers between his own for a brief moment.

“Ready to head in?”

Dean wants nothing more than to cross the barnyard hand-in-hand with his mother. To enter the house and sit around the living room with his family. To pretend that everything is normal. Hell, there’s a part of him that almost wants to assemble a model car.

But nothing about his life is normal anymore. It’s the apocalypse, for god’s sake. His grandfather is dying. His mother brought in three refugees. He has an _angel_ hidden in the hayloft hardly eight feet above her head where they stand right this moment.

So he shakes his head and releases Mary’s hand.

“Actually, I was thinking I’d walk the property line. I heard something in the woods last night, I want to make sure everything is okay.”

Mary studies him a moment with her knowing gaze and purses her lips. “You should take the shotgun with you, just in case. Ride Rosie, too, so you don’t get stuck out there.”

“Nah, you need the gun up at the house. There’s more people to protect now. Go ahead and get some rest, Mom, I won’t take too long.”

“My boy,” Mary murmurs, taking his face between her hands. “My brave boy. When did you grow up so much?”

Dean wraps a hand around her wrist and rubs his thumb across her skin. “I’m still your son, Mom. I’m still me.”

“Of course you are, baby. You’ll always be my boy.”

She brushes hair back from his forehead and stretches on her tiptoes to press a tender kiss to his forehead. Instinctively, Dean leans down to make it easier on her and closes his eyes to hold himself together at the gentle contact. Tears sting behind his eyelids as she touches their foreheads together and then draws him into a quick hug, nestling her face in his shoulder. He holds her tighter, praying that she knows how desperately he adores her. When she pulls away, she smooths the collar of his shirt and pats his shoulder lightly.

“Remember, honey, angels are watching over you.”

The sound of hay rustling in the loft drifts down, just loud enough for Dean to hear it. His heart skips a beat and he laughs, hoping his nerves don’t show in his face.

“You have no idea,” he says, and Mary’s lips quirk into an amused smile.

“Stay safe tonight, Dean. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

Mary gives him one last pat on the cheek before pulling the shawl tighter around her shoulders and heading back towards the house. Dean watches her until she’s back inside the screen door and only then does his heart rate slow. That was too close for comfort; it’s definitely past time to move Castiel.

He gathers a few supplies from various areas around the barn and stuffs them into old feed bags, then ties the burlap sacks together with twine. It only takes a handful of oats to convince Rosie to wear the makeshift pack. The chestnut mare nuzzles Dean’s side as he secures the bags to her back, clearly searching for more oats. He pushes her face to the side so he can hook the crossties to her halter. She nickers softly and Dean rubs her nose.

“It’s not even hard work, old girl. You’re fine.”

Rosie blows hot air but settles into the crossties and waits patiently as Dean climbs into the loft. Once again, Castiel is hiding in the darkest corner, but he comes out the moment he sees that Dean is alone. Dean beckons him closer.

“C’mon, Feathers, time to go. We gotta move pretty quick through the barn, but we’ll be more clear out in the pastures. Do you need me to carry you, or do you think you can handle the ladder okay?”

“I will be fine,” Castiel answers gruffly.

Dean climbs down first, ready to catch the angel should he fall, but Castiel manages to descend with only minor difficulty. Once he has both feet on the barn floor, Dean motions for him to follow. He attaches a lead rope to Rosie’s halter and unclips the crossties, and both horse and angel follow Dean dutifully out the back door of the barn.

Castiel seems to blossom in the open air with the last weak sunbeams splashed across his face. He closes his eyes and allows his head to fall back, spreading his arms and his good wing. His feathers ruffle in the breeze, shimmering in the dim light. He breathes deeply, lips parting in pleasure, and a true smile crawls onto his lips. Dean finds himself stuck where he stands, unable to look away from the angel.

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, his words saturated with warmth.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. Rosie snorts, and it’s just enough for Dean to snap back to himself, chest tight with something unknown.

“Don’t thank me just yet. We’ve still got a long walk ahead of us.”

Castiel nods slowly and opens his eyes after one last deep breath. His wing extends straight out, feathers taut as if he is stretching, and then folds back into place and he rocks onto the balls of his feet. The motion reminds Dean of Adam when he’s excited.

“Why do you have the horse?”

“Who, Rosie? She’s carrying stuff so we don’t have to. Plus, my mom thinks I’m patrolling the property. She wanted me to ride, so it would be kind of suspicious if Rosie were left behind.”

“Your mother, she is the one with whom you were speaking?”

“In the barn? Yeah.”

“And she knows that I am here…?”

“What? Oh, god, no, that would be a disaster. What makes you say that?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “She said that angels were watching over you. I am unsure exactly what ‘watching over’ entails, but I suppose I-”

“It’s just a saying, Cas,” Dean interrupts, shaking his head. “She doesn’t mean it literally. My mom is… selectively religious, I guess you could say. She didn’t come to the barn because she knew you were there, she has no clue. She just… she just wanted to check in.”

“Because of your grandfather. What is the matter with him?”

Dean clenches his jaw a few times, trying to rein in the sudden swell of emotion. He clears his throat and attempts a nonchalant hug.

“He’s sick. It’s, um… we can’t do anything about it. Doctor thinks he’ll be gone in a year.”

Castiel is quiet for a long moment as they walk. Every few steps Dean has to tug lightly on the lead rope to keep Rosie from stopping to graze. Eventually, Castiel brushes his fingers against the back of Dean’s hand, hardly with enough pressure to even call it a touch. Even so, Dean’s skin sings with the contact.

“If I could help, Dean, I would. But without my Grace, I am incapable of healing even myself.”

“Oh, right, almost forgot about your glowy light-for-blood thing.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. They flash briefly as they catch the quickly fading light. “The light you see is my Grace, yes, but it is not my blood. I suppose the best way to describe it is like your human soul. My Grace is the very essence of my being, it is what gives me life. It is what I _am_. Without my Grace, I am essentially human.”

Dean hums as he thinks about this new information. Rosie swishes her tail, irritated, as lightning bugs begin to emerge from the grass and wink peacefully around the trio. Castiel holds out a hand and watches with indescribable wonder as one of the bugs lands on his finger. Dean’s chest squeezes.

“So… what happened to your wing, and your side, is… is that why your Grace needs to ‘recharge’, or whatever?”

Castiel remains silent until the bug flies away again. He watches it sadly as it goes, flashing its way lazily into the tall grass. He runs his fingers along the seed heads as they walk past.

“… Yes. I was drained by the time I escaped, I had none left to heal myself as I flew. I suspect that is most of the reason I find myself at your mercy.”

“At my mercy?”

Dean stops in his tracks, causing Rosie to nicker softly as she reaches the end of her lead rope. Castiel pauses as well. He won’t look at Dean, but the way his feathers are ruffling clues Dean in to the fact that he’s clearly uncomfortable with something about the situation. Dean frowns.

“Cas, I’m not going to hurt you. And I don’t want you to feel like you’re trapped; you can leave any time you want. I mean, I don’t think you _should_, at least not until your wing is better, but-”

“_Dean_,” Castiel cuts in, good wing twitching out from his back slightly. “I do not feel trapped. I apologize, that was a poor choice of words. I am simply concerned that I have put you and your family in danger by being here. I am, after all, inhuman.”

He spits the last word like he is disgusted by it. Dean draws his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it as he considers what Castiel has said, the thinly veiled self-loathing in his voice. When Dean had called him an angel, Castiel had practically begged Dean not to say it again, and half the time that they have spoken, he has deftly avoided naming himself as something _other than_. Finally, Dean shrugs.

“Honestly, Feathers, I haven’t thought twice about my family since you started talking to me. I’ve heard some pretty nasty shit about angels, but you… I dunno, man, you seem different. I don’t mean to call you one of _them_ or anything, but you- you aren’t anything like the rumors. I don’t think you have anything to worry about when it comes to my family, either, they’re all a bunch of tough, stubborn bastards.”

Castiel stares at Dean for a long while, his expression open and unguarded in a way that Dean hasn’t seen yet. He can feel his chest squeeze again and wonders if his lungs are going to collapse. But then Castiel begins walking again, and Rosie eagerly follows, which forces Dean to move.

“Why is the horse called Rosie?”

Castiel’s question comes out of nowhere several minutes later, startling Dean into laughing so hard he doesn’t notice the small hole in the field before it sends Castiel sprawling, arms flung out in panic and one wing flaring up to slow his fall. It doesn’t do much good.

“Shit! Hang on, Cas.”

Dean reaches out a hand to help Castiel back to his feet, quickly checking the angel for fresh injuries and wiping the dirt from his knees. When he’s sure the angel is alright, he holds out his arm. Castiel takes the wordless offer and wraps a hand around Dean’s bicep to help balance himself as they continue walking.

“I do not see what you find humorous about my question,” he protests, petulant.

“It’s not the question, it’s the answer.” Dean bites his lip a moment to suppress a grin at the memory. “I was… eight? I think? …Yeah. I was eight or so when Rosie was born, and my grandma let me name her. Problem was, my dad had just got a new album from his favorite band and that’s all I could think of. So Rosie’s name is actually Guns N’ Roses, but Grandma Deanna always called her Rosie, and it stuck. Guess she didn’t appreciate me naming a newborn horse after a hard rock band.”

Castiel’s hand tightens briefly on Dean’s arm before his fingers relax again. Dean can feel every point of contact. He forces himself to think about where he’s putting his feet as the darkness sets in so he won’t trip and drag Castiel down with him.

“Did you also give Muffin her name?”

“Uh… yeah, actually. She’s really just named Muffin, though, no tricks there. I was hungry.”

Castiel’s breath huffs as it had in the barn, and a part of Dean wants to push and push until the angel laughs for real. He glances over to find him looking amused despite obvious pain and fatigue. Dean stops walking, forcing Castiel and Rosie to pause with him. Castiel looks to him in confusion.

“What is it?”

“You’re still hurting. Let me check your bandages.”

“I am alright, Dean, we can continue-”

Dean ignores Castiel’s chattering and reaches over to tug up the hem of his shirt and peek at the bandage that winds around his torso.

“_Fuck_,” he whispers, allowing the shirt to fall back into place. “Damn it. Cas, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Castiel shrugs, but doesn’t meet Dean’s eye. “I have experienced worse pain in recent days. This wound can wait.”

Dean groans. “You can’t think like that, Feathers. C’mere, you’re done walking.”

Castiel has only a moment to look confused before Dean is pulling his arm away and stepping closer to carefully scoop him off his feet. The angel’s mouth falls open to protest, but he finds himself being set atop the horse’s back long before any words can reach his tongue. Rosie turns her head to snuffle at his feet, then snorts and tries to sneak a mouthful of grass. Dean makes a face at her but allows her to eat in the hopes that she’ll stand still as he adjusts the position of the burlap sacks so that Castiel will be more comfortable. When he’s finished, one hand still rests on the angel’s knee.

Castiel hesitantly lays his hand atop Dean’s, and for a moment Dean is unable to draw breath. There is something so achingly familiar about being in the angel’s presence, and the sensation is intoxicating. Dean’s green eyes flicker up to meet Castiel’s blue, and they flash in the rising moonlight. The angel offers an earnest smile.

“Thank you, Dean.”


	7. Chapter 6

The journey across the fields seems quicker now that Castiel is riding and Dean does not have to adjust his pace to accommodate for the angel’s injuries. Rosie doesn’t balk at the prospect of entering the woods, as Dean had thought she might, and apart from an occasional question about the farm from Castiel, the trio moves on in silence.

Finally, they come to a stream whose waters burble over rocks and around the branches of a fallen tree. Dean turns south and follows the stream to an old wooden bridge. The hollow clunk of Rosie’s hooves on the wood resonates through the forest, causing an owl to hoot nearby. A raccoon pawing around in the water startles and runs off after a bout of soft chittering.

The path that Dean is following on the west side of the stream narrows until it is barely wide enough for Rosie to follow. Castiel has to brush aside a few branches so they won’t hit him in the face. Finally, they round a turn in the path and Dean stops walking, waving one hand at the clearing in a lazy arc.

“Welcome to the Batcave, Feathers.”

The ‘Batcave’ is a wooden fort nearly the size of a tiny cabin, cobbled together in the space between three giant maples. It winds around the trees to form a two-story enclosure, more of a treehouse with a basement than an actual building. It isn’t large by way of a permanent living space, but Dean knows from experience that there is more than enough room inside for a more cozy, intimate life. It had, after all, been designed for extended periods of camping, and built by an overeager little boy and his equally overeager father.

It was the one time that Samuel had allowed John to build on his property unsupervised. Of course, both Samuel and Deanna had made modifications over the years- some requested by Dean and others imposed on him to make his grandparents feel better about the sheer amount of time he spent out here.

Castiel stares at the Batcave in confusion. “Dean, this is not a cave, nor are there any bats.”

Dean shakes his head with a chuckle and ties Rosie’s lead rope around the hitching post that Deanna had forced Samuel to install for Dean when he had started riding the horses out to the fort.

“The Batcave isn’t a literal name. It’s… uh, it’s… a reference to a story, I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

He turns to help Castiel off the horse and finds the angel watching him with a curiously soft expression. Dean can feel it when he flushes, blood practically flooding to his cheeks and ears and the back of his neck. He clears his throat awkwardly, unsure why he’s even blushing, and reaches both hands up to Castiel, who slides easily off Rosie’s back and into Dean’s arms.

Castiel’s feathers ripple, catching the moonlight, and Dean feels the tip of the left wing brush against the side of his leg as it begins to curl around him. Time seems to stop as they stand there, pressed nearly chest to chest, breath mingling in the space between them.

Castiel steps away first, blue eyes flickering down and away from Dean’s face. He draws his wing back in towards himself and the feathers lie flat so rigidly that Dean is sure he’s forcing them to do so.

Dean leans around him to untie the burlap sacks and shoulder them, then nods toward the door of the fort. Castiel takes the hint and opens the door, allowing Dean to step into the musty dark before he follows.

Dean hasn’t been inside this thing in years. It’s in surprisingly good condition, he thinks, apart from a thick layer of dust and a few dead leaves. The table creaks under the weight of the feed bags when he lays them down. There is still a stack of comics on the shelf in the corner, and a pocketknife sits open beside them, evidence of the presence of a young boy, of a much different version of Dean. He has been wondering about where that knife has been, though.

“What is this place?”

Dean glances over his shoulder to see Castiel gently running a hand over the walls, trailing a finger along the edge of a shelf. It’s strange to see the angel inhabiting a space so suffocatingly full of Dean’s youth.

“I, uh, I built it with my dad when I was a kid. Then Pa helped me add on to it. Mom always called it a fort or a clubhouse, but Pa liked to say it was a glorified hunting shack.”

Castiel hums, gaze falling on the extensive network of spiderwebs in the corner. “This was your space, then?”

Dean chuckles and climbs halfway up the steep stairs in the corner to push open a trapdoor to the second floor. He motions for Castiel to follow before climbing the rest of the way.

“Yeah. Hell, I practically lived out here every summer. Used to stay overnight whenever I could convince my mom. Sam hated it ’cause I never let him tag along. Pretty sure he doesn’t even know exactly where it is, so this is perfect for you.”

The second floor is much more spacious than the first, mainly due to the fact that there is less furniture and more windows. The windows are actually just cutouts in the walls covered by plywood slats, so Dean pulls a few away to ‘open’ the windows and let the night air wash in. There’s another latched trapdoor in the ceiling that leads to the ‘roof’, but the rope ladder is snapped about halfway up. Dean adds that to his quickly growing mental list of tasks to clean the Batcave up a bit and make it livable for his hidden angel.

Castiel sits on the edge of a cot, breath leaving him in a pained wheeze. Too late, Dean remembers the gash in his side is still bleeding. He snags one of the feed bags off the table downstairs and brings it up to set on the floor beside the cot, rummaging until he finds what he’s looking for.

Castiel remains silent as Dean cleans and re-bandages the wound, muttering under his breath about popped stitches. He checks the bandage around Castiel’s right wing next, and putters around the Batcave for a while afterward before Castiel catches his wrist.

“Dean,” he says simply, and the farmer stops in his tracks, totally engrossed by the angel’s voice. “You should go home. Dawn will arrive shortly, and you have yet to rest; you need to sleep.”

“Yeah, well, so do you.”

“_Go_, Dean. I will see you when you are able to return.” When Dean still hesitates, Castiel cracks a grin. “If I need you, I will call. ‘Screeching’, and all. I promise.”

Dean’s trip back to the barnyard is far quicker with Rosie unburdened and Castiel- along with all his injuries- left behind. He rides bareback across the pastures, trying and failing not to feel guilty about harboring the angel. Castiel is obviously capable of being dangerous, but what Dean has seen so far is a frightened, flighty creature that doesn’t want to be called an angel.

Every caring instinct installed in Dean by twenty years with Mary is screaming to protect him.

The sun hasn’t yet broke over the horizon, but Dean turns Rosie loose in the closest pasture and walks the rest of the way to the barn so he can do the same for the other three horses. He’s about to do the same for the cows when he feels someone watching him. A quick glance down the aisle shows a silhouette standing in the doorway.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

Dean fumbles the latch on the cattle stall, nearly pinching himself as it snaps back into place.

“Holy shit, Jo, make some noise next time.”

Jo kicks the wall beside her to make a dull thud before she walks closer. She doesn’t say anything and her expression doesn’t change, but Dean is sure that this is snark rather than actual compliance. His heartrate has slowed by the time she reaches him, so he opens the latch and swings the gate of the cattle stall just enough for Jo to slip through behind him.

She follows him dutifully around the barn after the cows go out, listening intently as he explains the morning chores. She feeds the cats on her own while Dean works on cleaning the goat pen; the three goats happily roam up and down the barn before Ted notices a patch of dandelions in the yard and takes off running, which prompts Dennis and Tilly to follow.

They’re collecting eggs from the chicken coop when Jo’s silence finally gets the best of Dean; after living with Sam and Samuel for so long, he’s accustomed to people who voice their opinion without being asked for it. Jo hasn’t said a word since arriving on the farm a full day ago, and Dean has no idea how long before that she stopped speaking.

“Look, Jo, you really don’t have to help with all of this if you don’t want to. I know your mom wants you to, but I can handle all this. I’d ask for help if I needed it.”

Jo doesn’t respond. In some ways, she’s starting to remind Dean of Castiel. He lets himself out of the coop and holds the door for Jo to follow.

“Why were you up so early, anyway? Was it Sam? He snores like a dying chainsaw. You should really invest in some earplugs.”

For the first time that Dean has seen, Jo’s expression changes. She cracks the tiniest of smiles and nods her agreement. Dean laughs as he closes the coop back up, an irritated hen clucking around his feet. Maybe having Jo help out won’t be so bad after all.

Dean manages to carry on like this for another week before it is mentioned. He helps with breakfast, takes a nap, disappears into the woods to visit Castiel and work on the Batcave, returns to the house barely in time for dinner, takes a nap, tinkers with small projects around the farm until it’s time for barn chores, waits for dark, disappears into the woods to visit Castiel again, returns at dawn for barn chores, and repeats.

The entire time, he worries about Samuel, worries about Sam and Mary, worries about Castiel, worries about the farm. Hell, he even worries about Jo, especially after he overhears Ellen whispering frantically with Mary about how she still refuses to speak.

Nine days after Castiel crashed into Dean’s life, Dean finds himself stuck replacing a fence post out by the pond at the far north end of the property. The wild geese are mocking him from the opposite bank, ruffling their wings and honking gently to each other as they settle beneath the weeping willow. Dean doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching and nearly drops the new post on his toes when Jo seems to materialize beside him.

“You’re hiding something,” she says, and he actually does drop the post this time, only very narrowly avoiding his feet.

“Shit!”

Jo doesn’t react to the expletive nor the near injury. She stands with her arms folded over her chest, blonde hair blowing in the breeze. It’s the first time Dean has seen it down. She watches as Dean rolls the post to the side and sits down, exhaling slowly to calm himself. After a moment’s hesitation, she sits down beside him and repeats her statement.

“You’re hiding something. I want to know what.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding things?”

“Please,” Jo scoffs, leaning forward to rip up a handful of grass. “You sneak away every day for hours at a time, usually with food. You’re never in the house at night. You hardly ever sleep. You-”

“You don’t sleep much either,” Dean points out, desperately trying to think of a way out of this conversation.

Jo’s expression immediately turns steely. “I saw two cities get destroyed and my home burned to the ground. _I watched my dad die_. I have a reason for not sleeping, jackass.”

Guilt settles heavy in Dean’s gut. He coughs awkwardly. “I, uh… sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“I know.”

A beat passes between them. Across the pond, two young geese splash their way into the water. Dean doesn’t look at Jo for a while, knowing he needs to tell her something, anything, by way of explanation. Eventually, he sighs.

“There’s this old fort in the woods that I built back when I was a kid. I’m working on fixing it up and sometimes I stay the night out there. It’s easier than being in the house, y’know?”

It’s not the full truth, but none of it is a lie, either. Castiel arriving the same night as Samuel being diagnosed with lung cancer was certainly a sick sort of blessing; taking care of the angel has kept Dean’s mind from wandering back to the hopelessness of his grandfather’s condition too often.

Jo nods slowly, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. She squints against the sunlight, watching the geese swim in lazy circles.

“I’m not stupid, Dean, and I’m not broken.”

“I never thought you were.”

“Then why won’t you tell me about the angel? It’s in the fort, right?”

Dean can feel the moment his heart stops beating. Jo, of all people, shouldn’t know about an angel nearby. Not after everything that’s happened. He doesn’t reply immediately, mostly because he doesn’t have the words.

“Jo…”

“Oh, come on. You think no one noticed that crater in the wheat field? There’s not really a good explanation for it. I took a look after you left the other night. I found a feather, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. And I know birds, Dean, my dad taught me; that’s not a bird feather.”

“So your logical conclusion is ‘angel’.”

“_Don’t_ do that!” Jo barks, suddenly furious. “Don’t you dare try to undermine me. I lost fucking everything to those beasts and I _know_ you’re harboring one. My _mom_ thinks we’re safe here, and there’s a goddamn angel nearby?! I waited to get you alone to talk about this, and I didn’t have to do that, so don’t you dare spin this around on me.”

Dean shuts his mouth, ears burning. There are tears welling up in Jo’s eyes. She wipes at her face roughly with one arm, looking like she’d rather throttle Dean than let him see her cry. He swallows hard and takes a deep breath, then nods.

“I’m sorry, Jo. Really.”

“I don’t want your bullshit pity, Dean, I want you to get rid of that _thing_.”

An odd feeling settles into Dean’s chest, all at once fluttery and heavy as a brick. This isn’t the altercation he’d imagined would happen when someone found out about Castiel, but in some ways it is far worse. He’s grown attached to the angel in the past nine days. He’s also adjusted to living with Jo and her family. He’s sure he would choose Castiel over them even so. But Mary would choose the safety of her family and Dean isn’t sure that there is anything in the world that he would choose over his own mother, not even the angel. He doesn’t want to have to make that choice.

“I can’t do that,” he says quietly, feeling wretched as he watches fear and disbelief mix with the anger on Jo’s face. “My mom brought your family here. She trusts you, and I trust her. I want you to feel like you have a home here. But I can’t- I can’t make Cas leave.”

“Jesus Christ, you named it?!”

“What? No! I didn’t name him, he-”

“_It_ is a killer, Dean, why can’t you see that? You’re keeping it safe right now and one day it’ll reward you for that by burning your eyes out and destroying this whole farm.”

Dean allows a few tense seconds to pass in the hopes that Jo will calm down a bit. A small flock of swallows pass overhead, chattering as they snatch insects out of the air. Dean can’t help but think of the night Castiel fell, when the entire farm erupted into chaos to herald his arrival. If they hadn’t, Dean may not have made it to the field in time to save him.

“What if I can promise you none of that will happen? I can’t just let him go, Jo, he’s hurt. He almost died in the field. Look, if I had known you were coming and what happened to your dad, I never would have helped him. But I _didn’t_ know, and I _did_ help. You have to believe me, Jo. Even if Cas were a threat, I would _never_ let him hurt you.”

Jo regards him for a long moment, still blinking back angry tears. It’s hot in the sun, and Dean can see blonde wisps starting to stick to the sweat on her temple. She still seems righteously pissed off.

“Why’d you save it in the first place?” she asks, voice barbed with hurt. “Why not let it die?”

Dean shrugs, rolling his leather work gloves between his hands. His answer feels far too simple for what the situation has become.

“He asked for help.”

Things have settled into a rhythm by the end of September. Jo doesn’t mention the fact that Dean is hiding an angel in the woods, and she had agreed to start talking around Ash and Ellen again after a few days of hanging around with Dean. She doesn’t ever bring up the angel to Dean, but he notices that it becomes increasingly easier to sneak away to see Castiel.

The Batcave has been renovated into a tiny house of sorts, and the crowning jewel is the nest of blankets that Castiel has created as his bed. It is, Dean has to admit, infinitely more comfortable than the old cot, as well as far more welcoming. Especially when the angel is nestled in the pile beaming at Dean while wearing one of the shirts from the small horde of Dean’s old clothing he has amassed.

Muffin has taken up the habit of spending most of her time with Castiel rather than with the other cats in the barnyard. On occasion, she will even sit atop Dean’s shoulders while he rides Rosie across the fields. She lays on the cot beside Castiel now, head on her paws and tail swishing over the edge, watching as Dean hovers his fingertips over the skin of Castiel’s side.

All of his scrapes and bruises have healed, some leaving tiny scars in their wake. This deepest wound has just begun to form soft, sensitive pink scar tissue around the edges though it hasn’t completely healed. By contrast, Castiel’s wing, though no longer bandaged, still looks painful. The skin has healed in a mess of scar tissue, and though Castiel says the missing feathers will return in his next molt, Dean is unsure.

Dean stands and stretches, wincing as his back cracks. Castiel shrugs back into the left half of his shirt and lets the fabric fall to hide the new scar. Dean doesn’t miss the way his left wing moves automatically out of the way while his right wing remains concerningly stationary. When Castiel doesn’t move again, Dean settles back on the floor by his legs and nudges him gently with the toe of his boot.

“You doin’ alright, Feathers? You look a little lost.”

Castiel chews on his bottom lip, breathing deeply through his nose, and finally shakes his head. Dean frowns, concerned.

“What’s going on?”

“I… I am unsure that I will be able to fly, when this is all over.”

“What do you mean? It’s like you said, man, the feathers grow back and voila, Birdman takes the skies again!”

Castiel looks like he wants to find Dean’s comment amusing, but ultimately he just picks at the hem of his shirt with a sigh.

“It is… not that simple.”

“Alright,” Dean says, scooting closer without thinking. “What part isn’t simple? What can we do?”

“I am not sure there is anything either of us can do. This is a matter of my Grace; it is my own fault if I cannot fully regain it.”

“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean, ‘your fault’? You didn’t hurt yourself- you didn’t take your own Grace.”

“Not by my own hand, no. But what you must understand, Dean, is that I knew that losing my Grace could be a consequence of my actions, and I… I did what I did regardless.”

“Cas… what are you saying?”

“I was not injured in battle. I… I disobeyed a direct order and was punished by Michael himself. This-” he flutters a hand over his side, fingers trembling, “-this has been so slow to heal because it was caused by an angelic blade.”

Dean looks on in horror as it dawns on him that Castiel was attacked- nearly killed- by his own people.

“What about your wing?”

Castiel’s lips flatten into a tight line. He wrings his hands in his lap, and the quiver has moved up his arms into his chest, causing him to shake where he sits. His blue eyes are faraway. His breath quickens until it is coming in short, shallow puffs. Dean reaches over to lay a hand on Castiel’s knee and squeeze lightly, unsure if the gesture will help at all. Castiel’s lips move soundlessly at first, and then there is a soft ringing. Dean frowns.

“What did you say?”

“‘A punishment for a crime, one brother for another, one life for one death.’”

“What… what is that?”

“The words that Michael said to me before he ordered Naomi and Gadreel to keep me still until I Fell.”

“How can you fall if people are-”

“Fall, Dean. As in become human, lose my Grace, lose my… my wings. The wound in my side was meant to be a mortal one.”

Dean can hardly imagine the pain and fear of being restrained by people you trust while your own brother tortures you with the intention of leaving you to die alone and in agony.

“What order did you disobey, Cas? What crime could possibly deserve this punishment?”

“I… I killed an angel,” Castiel whispers, as if horrified of his own actions. “It was not my intent- I only wanted to keep Raphael from harming a group of human children, but I- … I never wanted to hurt anyone. Raphael’s death was an accident. Michael… Michael did not see it as such.” Tears drip from Castiel’s eyes without even brushing his cheeks as he hangs his head. “Balthazar and Gabriel helped me escape, but B-Balth… Bal-”

He cuts off with a wheeze, tears coming faster now. Dean moves his hand from Castiel’s knee to his shoulder, waiting for Castiel to look at him before he speaks in earnest.

“Show me. It’ll be easier.”

Castiel touches his fingers lightly to Dean’s cheek, just below his eye. The images don’t come immediately, nor does the electric tingle of Castiel’s skin, and some part of Dean knows that this will be different. There are no flashes of light or distorted images; this is a vision, a memory, and Dean is living it through Castiel’s eyes. He can’t understand the ringing voices of the other angels, but he can listen to them without feeling like his ears are bleeding and he can pick out what he thinks are words.

His heart hammers in his chest, so frantic he’s sure it’s going to beat right through his ribs. A dark-haired angel passes in front of him and forces him to his knees, driving dust and gravel under his skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a quick flash of silver, and then his side is split open with the telltale holy burn of an angelic blade.

Before he can react to the pain, two sets of hands seize his arms and hold him rigidly in place. He looks to either side, panicked, but neither angel acknowledges him. He can feel tears streaming down his face, washing tracks in the grime caused by the city burning around him, and is helpless to stop them. He wants to beg and plead, but the unfair words stick in his throat and choke him. A hand fists painfully in his hair and forces his gaze to the body beside him.

The silver handle of an angelic blade draws his eye, like a beacon, to the pool of blood slowly seeping towards the wing-shaped scorch marks on the earth. He squeezes his eyes shut, whimpering pitifully, and the hand shakes him roughly before releasing him. He barely has time to gasp a breath before the hand clenches around the back of his neck and shoves his face down. There is a heavy presence at his back, fingers raking through the feathers at the base of his wings. He tries to jerk away and finds that he cannot. His body shudders involuntarily.

He can feel blood soaking his side, hot and wet and sticky. It burns from the deep cut, seeping away with bits of his Grace. Lips brush the edge of his ear and terror freezes him in place as hot breath washes against his neck, followed by a barely-there whisper.

_“A vimekrkams kur o creak, oma brusrar kur omusrar, oma reka kur uma daosr_ _.”_

And agony sears through him, white-hot. He is unable to stop himself from screaming, Grace boiling in his veins. Glass shatters in the windows nearby and the ruined buildingsgggv g around him begin to crumble more quickly. There comes a fleeting moment of lucidity in which he realizes that his wing has been wrenched at an odd angle away from his body and torn violently. And then the sensation returns, and it’s everything he can do not to pass out. He screams again, struggling to break free until something within his wing cracks and his scream is cut short by the sudden wave of nausea that forces bile up his throat.

_“Michael! Ksuv srek_ _!”_

His vision swims as he blearily attempts to locate the owner of the voice, a golden-haired angel with righteous fury in his eyes, twirling his blade in one hand, firelight glinting off the silver. The movement is all at once nonchalant and threatening. He doesn’t even have the energy to feel relieved between the excruciating pain in his wing and his Grace lighting a fire in his veins.

The golden-haired angel lunges towards the dark-haired angel and he slumps to the ground as he is released, unable to hold himself up. He vomits a second time, struggling to push himself upright. Blood coating his hand causes him to slip halfway up and he cries out as he hits the ground again. He knows he has blacked out, but he has no idea for how long. Hands grab at him; he strikes out in panic and is easily countered. The hands pull him upright and then grasp at his face, and golden eyes appear in front of him, wide with fear and urgency.

_“Castiel! Cassie, ora aeui oreqa?! Aeui roqa su. Su muv! Krae kor, du mus ruud bocd, su_ _!”_

The hands move from his face to clasp around him in a quick, rough hug, and then they drag him to his feet and shove him away from the sounds of the fight. He stumbles, nearly falls, and manages to run a few feet before instinct kicks in and his wings flare up behind him, a familiar weight on his back that feels like it is slowly tearing away as he rises into the air. Indescribable pain flashes white behind his eyes and he slams into the side of a ruined building. There is a shout behind him, and he turns to see the dark-haired angel throwing the golden-haired angel to the side and driving a silver blade into the chest of a taller, slimmer blonde angel, whose cries of _“Mu! Vraoka, mu, mu!”_ are suddenly silenced.

He barely manages to keep himself from screaming again and throws himself toward the sky, flying as hard as he can manage away from the scene, trailing blood and Grace as the clouds envelope him. He can feel his muscles straining, aching, begging him to stop and rest and heal, and his energy saps as his Grace drains from the gash in his side, but he presses on until he can barely move his wing. Something internal tears, and then he is falling, spiraling, plummeting to the earth surrounded by holy fire, and the world goes dark on impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> “A vimekrkams kur o creak, oma brusrar kur omusrar, oma reka kur uma daosr.” - A punishment for a crime, one brother for another, one life for one death.
> 
> "Michael! Ksuv srek!" - Michael! Stop this!
> 
> “Castiel! Cassie, ora aeui oreqa?! Aeui roqa su. Su muv! Krae kor, du mus ruud bocd, su!” - Castiel! Cassie, are you alive?! You have to go. Go now! Fly far, do not look back, go!
> 
> "Mu! Vraoka, mu, mu!" - No! Please, no, no!"
> 
> (I used chaoticshiny 'harsh 1' for my Enochian this time around!)


	8. Chapter 7

It takes Dean a moment to come back to himself after the vision fades, phantom pains racking his body. A low keening draws his attention to Castiel, who is folded over on himself, rocking and struggling to breathe. Beside him, Muffin is no longer relaxed. She has sat up and is observing Castiel with wide eyes, the fur on the back of her neck bristling.

Dean reaches over to carefully guide Castiel off the cot and into the nest of blankets, then crawls in beside him and cautiously pulls the angel into his arms. He’s shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm, unable to control his residual panic. Dean tries his best to channel Mary’s calm energy and ends up taking the liberty of running his fingers through Castiel’s hair, careful not to pull accidentally.

Castiel gasps a shuddering breath against Dean’s shoulder and clings to him as hot tears leak down his cheeks. Dean whispers reassurances against Castiel’s skin until exhaustion overtakes him and he slumps in Dean’s embrace, fingers relaxing their grip on his arm and breath slowly evening out.

He stays long after Castiel has fallen asleep, still stroking the angel’s impossibly soft hair. He can’t stop playing Castiel’s memory over in his head; it all seems so unreal. The torture, the burning city, the two dead angels, the mad escape flight. He must have come across Castiel in the field just as the angel regained consciousness; no wonder he had been so afraid.

Dim light is filtering through the trees by the time Dean extracts himself from Castiel and lays him down into the nest. He feels wretched, sneaking out while Castiel sleeps and leaving him alone, but he has already stayed far longer than he should have. He makes his way back to the farm with his head in a fog.

Jo is perched on the gate of the goat pen, scowling at Dean as he enters the barn. She waves a hand toward the open door, where early morning sunlight is streaming in.

“Where the hell have you been? Another twenty minutes and I would have had to make an excuse for you so your mother wouldn’t think you died!”

“I, uh… I couldn’t leave him, Jo.”

“What, the beast? No shit. Figures it’s started trying to trap you.”

Dean shakes his head. “No, no, it’s... Cas, he wouldn’t do anything like that. He showed me how he got hurt, he…”

Jo’s brow furrows. She slides off the gate and takes a few steps forward. “Dean, are you okay?”

“He almost died, Jo. He killed another angel, but it- he wasn’t… it was an accident, he was trying to protect some kids, and they tortured him for it. They tried to kill him.”

Jo doesn’t say anything for a long while, looking vaguely shell-shocked, and finally lets her breath out in a whoosh. “Um… wow. Okay. I- I already did all the chores, so we could, like, go inside, if you wanted. Do you… do you want to talk about it, or something?”

Dean frowns at her. “I thought you hated Cas.”

“I do,” she says with a shrug, “but I sometimes don’t hate you, so… okay, look, I’m only offering this once.”

Dean chuckles softly and nods. “Alright. Let’s get breakfast first.”

After everything is cleaned up from the meal, Dean and Jo excuse themselves, and she follows him up into the attic. Jo walks around the edge of the room, running a finger over the model impala on Dean’s dresser, before settling cross-legged on the end of Dean’s bed. She’s still looking around curiously as he takes a seat beside her, and he realizes that she hasn’t been up here before. She doesn’t allow him to dwell on that thought long, though, but demands that he tell her what happened overnight. That’s what Dean intends to do, but he somehow winds up telling her everything, starting with Castiel’s arrival and ending with the angel’s panic attack.

When he has finished recounting the events of the past two months, Dean waits for Jo’s reaction with bated breath. Her answer is not at all what he expects.

“I want to meet it.”

She flips hair over her shoulder in one smooth motion, cool blue eyes falling on Dean’s shocked expression. She makes a face in response.

“What? Don’t look at me like that. I want to meet it, okay? I want to make my own judgement.”

“Uh… alright. I guess you can come with me this afternoon.”

“Good.” Jo flops backward, making herself at home on the bottom half of the bed. “What do we do until then?”

Dean lays back across the top half, dragging over a pillow and smacking Jo in the face with it. She shrieks and flails, nearly falling off the bed, then wrestles the pillow from Dean’s hands to retaliate. He barely manages to fend off her attacks, laughing the entire time. When she finally stops hitting him, she’s grinning, too.

“Well, that plan backfired on me, so I say we sleep,” Dean says, a little breathless.

Jo makes an amused noise in the back of her throat. “Seriously? God, you’re such an old man.”

Dean stretches out one arm to punch her lightly. She settles down again, hair splayed in a wild blonde halo around her. They lay for a few quiet moments, staring at the ceiling, and then Jo rolls onto her side to stare at Dean.

“I think I understand why you did it,” she mumbles, tucking her hands up under her chin.

Dean lolls his head towards her, brow creasing in confusion. “Did what?”

“Why you saved the angel. Why you patched it up. Why you’re keeping it around.”

“Ah. And why do you think that is?”

“You’re a lot like your mom. I mean, we ran into her and your grandpa outside Lawrence and the first thing she did was as us if we were okay. Then she offered us a place to stay. She didn’t know us. She didn’t know if we were dangerous or not. She saw people who needed help and she offered it.”

“Yeah, well, that’s just who Mom is, y’know?” Dean turns his gaze back to the ceiling and waits a moment before he speaks again, quieter now. “She, uh… she had this big fight with my dad when she found out he was cheating on her. Sam was barely ten, and Mom didn’t want him to think Dad was a bad person or anything- wanted to protect him- so she gave me some cash and had me take him around to all his favorite places. We saw a movie.”

“What about you?” Jo asks softly. “If Sam was ten, you were, what, fourteen? You were a kid, too. Didn’t she want to protect you, too?”

“… I already knew. There was no point in trying to change my opinion of my dad. He- he wasn’t like yours. He didn’t teach me about birds or anything like that.”

“I thought you said he helped you build that fort, the one you’ve got the angel in.”

“Yeah. That was after he disappeared for three weeks on some sort of bender, though. He was around most of the time when I was a kid, but he wasn’t really ever _there_, y’know? I mean, I guess it could have been worse. But it could have been a hell of a lot better, too.”

Jo chews her lip, contemplating this. “How long has it been since you’ve seen him? I mean, I’ve been here two months already and no one has come or gone.”

“I dunno. I ain’t been to Lawrence since… May? Yeah, Sam’s birthday. But I didn’t see my dad, I dropped Sammy off and spent the day with Bobby. And before that… I guess New Year’s, maybe?”

“Dean, it’s been almost a year since you’ve seen your dad. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Dean shrugs. “We’ve never really seen eye-to-eye, Jo. It’s probably for the best that he’s still in Lawrence.”

“I guess you are harboring a fugitive angel,” Jo snorts. “That probably wouldn’t go over well.”

Dean barely manages to hold back a wry chuckle. “Are you kidding me? He’d rip me a new one for putting everyone at risk. I don’t know if he’s quite as scary as you, though.”

Jo flashes a wicked grin, all teeth. “Why thank you, Dean.”

“Not sure I meant it as a compliment,” he mumbles.

“Don’t care!”

She pops him with the pillow again, cackling as he makes a slight ‘oomf’. He shoves her off the bed in retaliation, and she yelps her surprise. Dean laughs, throwing an arm over his eyes. The bed shifts as Jo climbs back up and lays beside him. This time, neither disrupt the peace, and they both drift off to sleep.

Under the heat of the early afternoon sun, Jo helps Dean tack two of the horses. Rosie snorts and twists her neck around to nuzzle at Dean for treats. He shoves her nose away with a laugh and hands Zelda’s reins to Jo. The palomino mare tosses her head in a cheap attempt to pull free from Jo, who tightens her grip on the reins.

They mount the horses simultaneously and ride east out of the barnyard. Jo trots Zelda up beside Dean and Rosie once they’ve reached the property line and gives Dean a quizzical expression.

“Where are we going? You usually go through the west pastures.”

“Yeah, but Zelda likes trail rides, so we’re taking the long way.” Dean glances over at her and grins. “Plus, I figured you could use a change of scenery.”

Jo rolls her eyes, but Dean is fairly certain he catches her smiling out of the corner of his eye.

They follow the property line until they have passed the pond- geese honking at them every step of the way- and Dean guides Rosie onto a trail cut into the forest. It winds a gentle path through the trees until it disappears into the banks of the stream. They follow the stream back south, and for a while, the only sounds are the horses’ quiet hoofbeats and leaves rustling in the breeze.

As the old bridge comes into view and Dean begins to turn Rosie towards it, Jo suddenly pulls up on the reins and shifts nervously in her saddle.

“What should I expect?” she asks.

Zelda tosses her head and snorts, testing her limits while Jo is distracted. Dean stops Rosie to look over his shoulder and chide Zelda, then turns his attention to Jo.

“Hey, you’re gonna be fine. I promise he’s not dangerous, Jo. I can guarantee that he’ll be more scared of you than you are of him.”

“That’s what you say about spiders, jackass,” Jo grumbles, and urges Zelda onwards.

Dean laughs and walks Rosie across the bridge. Zelda’s hoofbeats follow close behind. The Batcave slowly comes into view through the trees, and Dean spots Castiel on the roof, peering over the edge to watch his approach. The angel’s left wing puffs up suddenly, and he disappears quickly. The only evidence that he had been there at all is a slight rustling of the maple leaves.

Jo is still looking around with an expression that is simultaneously wary and curious when Dean swings his leg over Rosie’s back and drops to the ground. He smooths a hand over her flank before tying her reins to the hitching post and turning to take Zelda’s reins from Jo.

He offers a hand to help Jo out of the saddle once he has tied Zelda in place. It takes her a moment to notice, and when she accepts the assistance, she still moves with a certain distracted slowness.

“C’mon,” Dean murmurs, leading her toward the Batcave’s door.

The air inside is slightly cooler than the shade from the trees outside; despite being nearly October, the days are still warm. Jo hesitates just inside the door and blanches when she hears a scuffle from above her. Dean guides her to a chair and gently pushes her down, speaking in low tones.

“Stay here a sec, okay? I’m gonna go tell him you’re with me, and I’ll call you up when you’re both ready.”

Jo nods a bit numbly as she watches Dean slip through the hatch and close it behind him. It takes Dean a moment to find Castiel upstairs- the angel is tucked into a corner, left wing wrapped around him to help blend him into the shadows. His glowing eyes are what give him away, peeking curiously around his wing as Dean eases the hatch shut.

Dean flashes an easy smile as he crosses the room. “Hey, Feathers.”

Castiel lowers his wing the tiniest amount, still squished as tightly as possible into the corner. “Hello, Dean,” he says, muffled behind his thick feathers.

Dean’s smile widens before he can help himself, and he reaches out a hand toward Castiel. After a moment, the angel extends his own hand and allows himself to be drawn gently from the corner. His feathers are puffed up along the ridge of his wings in agitation. Dean meets Castiel’s eyes with a silent question and waits for a nod before running his hands along each wing, smoothing the feathers back into place.

“I brought Jo with me,” he half-whispers, still stroking the silky feathers absently. “I need to know that you’re okay with her being here.”

“She knows?” Castiel asks, though it’s more of a statement than a question.

Dean nods. “She wants to meet you. I… I’m not sure why. But I’ll only let her up here if you’re okay with it.”

Castiel nods absently at first, then more confidently. “Yes, but what- … what do I say to her?”

“Uh… I dunno, actually. Just, like, introduce yourself, I guess. You’re sure about this?”

“… Yes. Yes, I am sure. You may bring her up.”

Dean moves to open the hatch and call for Jo. She comes up the steep steps moments later, hand against the wall for balance, and stills when she catches sight of Castiel.

An eternity passes before either of them make another move. At long last, Jo steps further into the room, eyes glued to Castiel. He stutters forward less than an inch and stretches out a shaking hand; Dean can practically feel the anxiety washing off of him.

“Hello, Jo. My name is Castiel. Dean has told me a great deal about you.”

Jo’s gaze flickers to Dean, then down at Castiel’s hand, and finally back to the angel’s face.

“You ain’t gonna zap me, right? I don’t want no angel magic or nothin’.”

Castiel visibly twitches at the word ‘angel’, but he forces himself to stay calm. His feathers lie rigidly straight as he does so, and some part of Dean thinks that Castiel would make a terrible liar.

“No, I… I thought that grasping each other’s hands was a greeting ritual…? I was not… I have no intention of using my Grace. I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable.”

Jo watches as Castiel begins to withdraw his hand. She snatches it at the last second, then freezes as if she can’t believe her own boldness. She shakes once, curtly, and drops his hand just as quickly as she had taken it.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly. “Right, so… introductions out of the way, why don’t we sit down? I get the feeling this might be a long talk, and I don’t really want to stand the entire time.”

Jo settles on the edge of the cot, as far as she can manage from where Castiel sinks into the blanket nest. Dean takes up residence on the floor between the two, making sure to sit just far enough to the side that he doesn’t wind up directly in either’s line of sight.

Castiel is first to break the endless silence that follows. He shifts his weight and draws his good wing in tight against his back like a safety blanket.

“I am sorry about what happened to your father, Jo.”

Dean blinks, surprised. He’d figured the conversation would wind up here at some point, but he hadn’t thought Castiel would lead with it. Jo’s answer comes quickly in a venomous, scathing tone.

“What have you got to be sorry for? You’re not the one who killed him.”

“No,” Castiel admits, somber. “But condolences _are_ in order. I may not be personally responsible, but my- my kin are. As I once told Dean, this war should never have involved your world. You should never have lost your father.”

Dean can see Jo clenching and unclenching her jaw, blinking hard against tears. She’s quiet while she tries to compose herself, and when she speaks again, it’s in a much smaller and less accusatory voice than Dean expects.

“Were you there? Valentine, when it was attacked, were you part of the fight?”

Castiel slowly shakes his head. “I was not. I… I was not allowed near any battle for quite some time. As Uriel would say, I have a habit of interfering.”

“You were in Tonganoxie, though, weren’t you? It’s where you got hurt.”

“…Yes.”

The two of them discuss the war in far more detail than Dean has ever dared to ask. After the initial meeting, neither Jo nor Castiel seems afraid of the other. Jo challenges Castiel several times with her questions, and he meets each with a fierce sort of determination. When they finally quiet after several hours of talking, Dean thinks that perhaps Jo has run out of barbed questions to ask. Then she clears her throat again, brushing hair over her shoulder.

“So, angel,” she starts, actively ignoring Castiel’s grimace, “what are you going to do when you can fly again?”

“Jo, stop it,” Dean cuts in.

Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s arm. “No, I want her to speak. I- I want you to know for certain that I mean you no harm,” he says, carefully meeting Jo’s eyes as he speaks.

She nods once. “I want to know what your plan is.”

“I do not have one. Truth be told, I am unsure that I will ever fly again, even after my feathers have grown back.”

“Bullshit.”

Dean and Castiel both startle at the hard edge in Jo’s voice. She looks between them and scoffs.

“You’re just scared. You’re giving up before you’ve even healed enough to try. Stop being a baby and give yourself a chance.”

Dean raises an eyebrow while Castiel looks chastised beside him. Jo shrugs.

“What? You know I’m right.” She turns her attention fully to Castiel. “When- not if- _when_ you can fly again, what are you going to do? Are you going back to the angels?”

“I… I do not know. I certainly would not be welcomed back without understandably dire consequences. I have no desire to partake in violence, nor do I wish to overstay my welcome here. However, I… I do enjoy being here. With Dean,” he adds after a second of silence, carefully avoiding Dean’s surprised glance.

Dean misses the calculating glance Jo throws his way. She huffs a sigh and draws her legs up onto the cot, knees to her chest.

“Well, it _is_ technically Dean’s farm, so I think you’re good on that front. The problem is, you can’t live a secret forever. So I need you to promise me something.” She chews the corner of her lip as she tries to figure out how to word her request. “I need… okay, you _know_ what happened to my family. I can’t have that happen again. It would destroy my mom, and Ash and everyone else here, they- … no one deserves that.”

Castiel nods once, eyes downcast. “I understand. As soon as I am able, I will-”

“_No_. Stop it, stop that. God, why does everyone always assume they know what I mean? Ugh.” She sucks in a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “I’m going to offer my help in keeping you around and in giving you and Dean both more freedom to move around and- and _live_. But first, I need you to promise me that you are the _only_ angel that will ever step foot on this farm.”

“As much as I wish I could promise that, Jo, I cannot. I have no way of knowing the movements of the angels. What I can promise, however, is that I will always do my best to protect this place from harm, and I can promise that it will be extremely difficult for the angels to find me here. If they are even interested in searching for me, that is.”

Jo’s lips purse as she considers this. She runs her hands over the rough fabric of her shorts a couple times and finally nods.

“I can live with that. Now, I don’t care if you excuse me or not, I’m gonna get some air.”

She stands abruptly and crosses the room back to the hatch for the stairs. Once he has managed to get over his initial shock, Dean scrambles to his feet to follow her. He catches her wrist just as she shoves her way out the door of the Batcave and tugs gently so she’ll stop.

“Jo, wait!”

“What do you want, Dean?” she asks tiredly, pulling her arm from his grasp.

He steps forward and wraps her in a tight hug, burying his face in her soft blonde hair. “Thank you,” he whispers. “I know that wasn’t easy, but I know- I _know_\- you’re saving his life right now.”

Jo pushes her way out of the embrace. Her face is red and her eyes are wet. She sniffles, rubbing her nose on her arm.

“I don’t- I don’t want to talk about it, Dean.”

“That’s okay. I just- … really, Jo, thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Look, I’m taking Zelda and I’m going back. Do you need an excuse or not?”

“Nah, I’ll be back before dinner. See you there?”

Jo nods. Dean unties the reins from the hitching post as Jo climbs into the saddle, then loops them over Zelda’s neck to hand them to her. Zelda snorts and tosses her head, and then Jo whirls the horse around and takes off at a brisk trot. Dean waits until he can no longer see her through the trees before he reenters the Batcave and returns to Castiel


	9. Chapter 8

Dean returns to the barn a little over an hour later and is surprised to find that Jo has only just arrived as well. They help each other untack the horses and turn them loose without saying a word; Dean isn’t sure if he should comment on Jo’s prolonged absence or not, and Jo still seems wrapped up in her own thoughts.

They pass Mary and Ellen on the front porch on their way past and wave. Both women smile but don’t pause their conversation. Samuel is making his way slowly through the living room, barking orders through the open door to the back porch, where Ash is standing beside the grill.

Dean and Jo slip into the kitchen to find Sam pulling a fresh loaf of bread from the wood stove. He looks between the two of them and raises an eyebrow.

“What have you guys been up to all day?”

“Property line,” Dean grunts, waiting for Sam to turn his back before glancing at Jo. She catches his eye and hums her agreement absently.

“…Right. Well, just make sure you talk to Mom tonight, okay? She said something about harvesting the wheat.”

“Yeah, we need to get to that.”

Jo hops up on the counter and kicks lightly at Dean, who knocks her foot away with one hand. Sam clears his throat to draw their attention again.

“Is this, like, a thing now?”

“… Is what a thing?”

Sam gestures vaguely at the two of them before flipping the bread from its pan and setting it on a cooling rack.

“You two. If you’re going to be a thing, you have _got_ to promise me you aren’t going to be weird about it.”

Dean makes a face as Jo pretends to retch. Sam frowns, seemingly concerned by their near immediate reactions. When she’s finished with her over-the-top acting, Jo dissolves into a fit of giggles. Dean is laughing as well, trying to control himself long enough to answer Sam. Jo recovers first, however, and she responds with a squeal.

“Ew, no!”

“Ew?!” Dean yelps indignantly.

Sam takes a step back. “Oookay,” he says. “Sorry I asked. I just figured, y’know, you’re always together these days, I thought maybe…”

“God, no, have you _met_ your brother? Besides, he’s already head over heels for someone else.”

Dean’s head snaps around to Jo. “What? No, I’m not! Who?”

She grins wickedly. “Oh, you know… dark hair, pretty eyes-”

Jo shrieks as Dean lunges forward and claps a hand over her mouth with a nervous laugh, unsure what she’s playing at. In the same moment, Sam drops his oven mitts onto the counter with a delighted gasp.

“No way, dude, seriously? You’ve still got a crush on _Lisa Braeden_?! Didn’t she have a kid when you were still in high school?”

Dean can feel himself flush, ears burning. “No! I mean- yeah, she had a kid, but- … no! I never had a crush on Lisa. Jo has no idea what she’s talking about.”

“Oh, so it’s Carmen Porter, then.”

Jo’s eyes light up. She tugs Dean’s hand away from her mouth and twists his wrist so he can’t try anything else. “Who’s Carmen Porter?! Dean, did you _actually_ have a _girlfriend_ once?”

This time, Sam cackles. He scoots out of Dean’s reach preemptively before crowing, “Dean?! A girlfriend? No way!”

Mary and Ellen choose this moment to enter the kitchen. They both look a little confused as they survey the scene: Sam bent double and wheezing with laugher, Jo sitting on the counter with Dean’s hand in a wristlock, and Dean with a bright red face, still reeling from the conversation being turned against him.

“Mom,” he says desperately as Mary is unable to keep a grin from spreading across her face. “_C’mon_! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am!” Mary protests, walking past the trio to set a kettle of water on the wood stove.

Behind her, Ellen raises an eyebrow and leans against the doorway. “What are we taking sides on, exactly?”

“The fact that Dean has never had a girlfriend!”

“Oh, of course he has,” Mary croons, patting Dean’s cheek as she passes.

“_Thank you, _Mom,” Dean starts to say, and is interrupted by Sam scoffing. He shoots his baby brother a glare.

“When?!” Sam demands, flipping Dean off behind Mary’s back.

“Hmm… oh, gosh, what was her name? She was such a sweet girl… she taught you how to play the guitar, remember?”

“… Robin.”

Dean mumbles the name with a wince, bracing himself for Mary’s response. She claps her hands together excitedly and whirls to face Dean.

“Yes! Robin! You were going to take her to homecoming your freshman year, right? Oh, and then there was Cassie, when you were-”

“Okay, okay, we get it, Mom, thank you,” Dean interrupts, the tips of his ears burning.

Mary winks at him, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “And after you started working with Bobby, you kept telling me about Be-”

“What about Sam, huh? Why don’t we start embarrassing him? Or Jo?”

Jo holds her hands up in a universal surrender gesture. “I’m untouchable, Winchester.”

Sam blanches as Mary turns towards him with a croon.

“We could talk about Jess from the eighth-grade dance, or Amelia from the quiz bowl team…”

“Or Eileen,” Dean chimes in, surprised that his topic switch has actually worked.

It feels nice to laugh with his family, he thinks, watching as Mary catches a protesting Sam in an embrace and coos over her youngest son. Ellen and Jo are both laughing as well, and Jo squeals when Ellen approaches with a mischievous expression.

They’ve all been through so much trauma in the past few years, especially in recent months with Samuel’s diagnosis and the apocalypse looming over them. But despite it all, they can gather in the kitchen, tease each other, enjoy each other’s company and take joy in the smaller things in life.

It’s in this moment that Ash and Samuel crowd into the small kitchen as well, holding platters of fresh food. Dean steps back against the cupboards to allow them through to the dining room, watching as Mary tries to sneak a bite and Samuel slaps her hand away.

Dean meets Jo’s eyes in the ensuing chaos, and when she gives him a smile and a small nod, he allows himself to relax. This is his family, after all, and something tells him that everything is going to work out alright.

Dean is still in a good mood when the sun begins to set, at which point he and Jo have nearly completed the evening barn chores. He’s just finished herding the goats back into their pen when he hears Jo sigh behind him.

“Just go,” she says, stepping forward to treat Tilly to a handful of grain.

“What?”

“The angel. You’ve been sneaking glances at the woods this whole time. Just go see him already.”

Dean opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure if he should take the risk of asking Jo if she’s really okay with this. She rolls her eyes with a groan and hip-checks him towards the back door.

“_Go_, Dean. I can handle the chicken coop on my own.”

Dean flashes a grin, unable to stomp down his growing excitement; with Jo on his side, he might be able to let Castiel explore a bit rather than being cooped up in the Batcave constantly.

“Thanks, Jo.”

She sticks out her tongue and waves dismissively. Dean pauses to look back at the end of the aisle, but Jo has already left the barn. Part of him wants to check on her and ask where she had gone off to all afternoon, but a larger part of him is practically leaping at the chance to surprise Castiel with a night of freedom.

He leaves Rosie behind and walks to the Batcave, so the sun has dipped well below the horizon by the time he arrives. A flash of movement draws his gaze upwards, where he spots Castiel watching him from the shadows on the roof.

“Hey, Feathers!” He calls, squinting up through the maple leaves.

Castiel’s eyes glint as they catch the first weak streams of moonlight. “Hello, Dean. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, man. And I’ve got good news! Come on down, why don’t’cha?”

Dean meets Castiel halfway up the Batcave’s stairs and reaches out an expectant hand. Obviously confused, Castiel hesitates before taking it.

“I… I do not understand,” he stammers as Dean leads him towards the door. “What is the good news?”

“Jo. She wasn’t kidding, earlier. She’s gonna cover for me and keep watch so you can get out in the open sometimes. Stretch your wings, y’know? It’s obviously not doing you any good to be cooped up here all the time.”

A demure expression crosses Castiel’s face. “I would like to see the stars again,” he admits, his tone almost sheepish.

Dean squeezes the angel’s hand before he even realizes he’s still holding on. He drops Castiel’s hand quickly and takes the final step to open the door.

“Let’s go look at some stars, then.”

Castiel seems to consider his options before ruffling his wings and striding through the open door with determination. He looks over his shoulder at Dean with such an eager smile that Dean can’t help but grin.

They follow the path through the woods at a quicker pace than Dean had thought Castiel would be capable of. Every few steps, their elbows brush together, or Castiel’s wing crowds up against Dean’s back. Dean is fairly certain that Castiel isn’t aware of this, judging by the way his feathers are quivering.

The moon is high in the sky when they reach the edge of the woods, though the night is still young. Castiel pauses just inside the tree line, wringing his hands nervously. He doesn’t say anything, but Dean can read the mix of fear and anticipation in his expression.

Dean’s lips quirk and he bites back a chuckle. He walks forward until he’s several feet into the wheat field, then gestures for Castiel to follow. He hesitates a moment longer before joining Dean among the golden wheat, and for a moment Dean is frozen-

Castiel in the moonlight is breathtaking.

The pale beams of light refract off the iridescence of his hair and feathers and seem to make his pale skin glow. He tips his head back, turning his face to the sky with a contented sigh. His good wing fluffs a little and pulls away from his back as if he is stretching it.

Dean’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest before he realizes he is staring open-mouthed. Castiel smiles at him brilliantly and rolls his shoulders so his good wing extends and flicks Dean’s arm.

“Thank you, Dean.”

Dean flushes and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “Thank yourself, Feathers. You’re the one who got Jo on our side.”

Castiel laughs a little, almost like he can’t quite believe he’s out in the open. “I… I do not know what do to. Freedom, in any sense, is something that is new to me.”

“We can do whatever you want. As long as it’s outside, that is; we’re taking advantage of Jo’s help tonight.”

Castiel chews his bottom lip as he thinks, eyes bright as he surveys his surroundings. He draws in a deep breath of the night air. A breeze picks up around the two of them, and his feathers fluff up to catch it.

“I think… I think I would like to see the site of my Fall. I need to reconcile with it.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but nods. “Okay. Yeah, sure thing, man.”

Dean can tell that the dynamic between them has shifted since Castiel opened up about what happened to him. It has certainly undergone a drastic change since the angel Fell back in August. He’s never really been great at thinking about stuff like this, though, so he dismisses the thought almost as quickly as it pops into his head.

Castiel walks close by Dean’s side until they reach the scar carved into the center of the field. Dean pauses to look over his shoulder towards the barnyard and the house, briefly wondering if they are far enough out that the old oak will hide them from view with its yellowing leaves. The wheat rustles in the gentle breeze, a sort of golden shield obscuring the two of them from view. Castiel continues walking forward slowly, almost reverently, even as Dean stops.

The deep furrow has begun to heal, sparse grass poking through the scorched earth, interspersed with spindly-looking asters. They seem to have begun to wilt in anticipation of October and the first frost; it’s been an unusually warm September.

Dean watches as Castiel makes his way to the center of the crater at the end of the furrow. The angel kneels, brushing his fingers along the petals of the nearest aster. He studies the flower for a long moment afterward, then sighs. His wings droop as if he is disappointed.

There is something in his expression that makes Dean’s chest constrict. He clears his throat to draw Castiel’s attention, and when the angel’s gaze turns back to Dean, it is profoundly lonely. Dean frowns.

“You okay, Feathers?”

“I… yes.”

Castiel’s eyes flicker away from Dean, back down to the aster. His feathers ruffle. Dean walks a bit closer and sits down in the wheat just past the crater. He pats the ground beside him and, after a moment, Castiel joins him. They sit quietly for a while, both staring at the scraggly wildflower.

“What did you try to do?” Dean asks eventually, carefully observing Castiel from his periphery.

Castiel sighs heavily. “I was going to channel my Grace to help it grow, but… I suppose I have not recovered enough to help even a small flower.”

“I dunno. Your side is healed up, for the most part. Your wing is-”

“Useless,” Castiel interrupts.

Dean huffs a dry laugh. “I was going to say ‘looking better’, but sure. C’mon, man, the feathers that are still there respond just like the ones on your healthy wing. I know you still can’t move it, but it’s not like we’ve tried any sort of physical therapy.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You’re gonna need to do some work to get your wing back the way it was. Maybe your Grace is the same way. Maybe you just need to try again.”

Castiel remains silent as he considers this. Dean can practically see the confusion melting into tentative hope. Castiel’s eyes flash in the moonlight as he meets Dean’s gaze. He draws his lower lip between his teeth, obviously unsure, and then nods firmly.

“Alright.”

He tips himself forward and crawls the short distance back to the center of the crater. Dean watches as Castiel settles into a kneeling position beside the flower and closes his eyes. After a few deep, slow breaths, his lips begin to move soundlessly. By the time the quiet ringing of Castiel’s voice reaches Dean’s ears, the angel seems to have gone into some sort of trance.

And all of a sudden, Castiel’s eyes begin to glow. It is entirely different from the reflection of moonlight that usually occurs; Dean has never seen anything like this. Castiel’s expression is blank, face tipped up towards the sky, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.

The glow begins in his irises, the dark blue shifting into a white-blue light that spreads into his sclerae. His hands begin to emit the same soft light, cupped around the tiny aster. Dean swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat, feeling his heart rate pick up at the sight of the luminous angel. Instinct tells him that he needs to run, that this is incredibly dangerous, but there is something deeper and closer to his soul that urges him to stay.

The glow sweeps over Castiel’s skin until his entire being is surrounded in radiant white-blue light. He is brilliant and beautiful, well and truly a creature of exquisite glory, and the sight is captivating. Deep set self-preservation is the only thing that gives Dean the presence of mind to look away before the unchecked light of Castiel’s pure Grace blinds him.

Even with his eyes closed, Dean can feel the warmth of Castiel’s Grace as the light envelops him and forms a bubble around them. It resonates with some hidden part of him and takes his breath away.

With a flash, it is gone.

Dean gasps for breath as the cool night air rushes against his skin, unbidden tears dripping from his cheeks. He opens his eyes again just in time to see Castiel listing to the side, and dives forward to catch him before he can hit the ground.

They remain like that for a few endless moments; Dean cradling Castiel’s limp form in his arms, the angel’s breath tickling his neck and hair ruffling against his chin. Crickets begin chirping again at nearly the same time as Castiel stirs. He groans tiredly, pushing himself upright with shaking hands, and Dean keeps an arm around his shoulders just in case.

Dean lets out a trembling laugh, heart still hammering in his chest. “See, Cas? I told you you could do it. Look!”

Castiel struggles to turn his head and slumps back against Dean’s side with a satisfied smile when he sees the aster. The flower has grown into a tall, sturdy plant with several large, purple blooms. He laughs weakly.

“Perhaps I overdid it. I seem to be out of touch with my Grace. I… I cannot quite control myself.”

Dean rubs his shoulder encouragingly. “We’ll get there, Feathers. Just gotta work at it a while. With a little practice, you can do anything you set your mind to.”

Castiel rests his head on Dean’s shoulder and hums his acknowledgement. “Is that another thing your mother told you?”

“Well… yeah. But it’s true.”

“I suppose. Tell me, what is it about humans that makes you all so optimistic?”

“Not all of us,” Dean chuckles. “Just my mom in particular. She, uh- … she really cares, y’know? About me and Sam. She doesn’t want us to feel like we’ve missed out on anything in life.”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Missed anything.”

“Oh.”

Dean falls silent, considering this. There’s still a deep ache in his chest from the loss of Castiel’s Grace, and the question makes it twinge painfully. Dean clears his throat and starts to shrug, then stops and sighs.

“I, uh… I dunno. I never really thought about it, I guess. What about you?”

Dean turns his face to sneak a glance at Castiel, but the angel’s attention is directed upward, stars reflected in his sad eyes.

“Sometimes I feel that I have missed many things,” he says eventually, voice rough. “I am a creature created for battle, but… I take no joy in it. I suppose I wish I were more like the angels that your mother describes. Creatures of gentility, and healing, and- … and love.”

“Cas…”

“I know that many humans choose to believe in something grander than all of us, but I… I am not so sure, Dean. I have lived many years and seen many things, and I am not… I cannot accept that there is someone who created my kind only to abandon us to the fate of war. Perhaps long ago there was someone that cared for us, but now… I cannot see any way that we are not alone in this world.”

“Pretty nihilistic for an angel,” Dean murmurs, then winces. “Shit! Sorry.”

“Not to worry, Dean. I know what you meant.”

Dean nods, and a few quiet moments pass between them. Dean lays back in the wheat, staring up at the stars. Castiel settles on his stomach beside him, left wing stretching to cover Dean. The massive feathers are warm and silky against his skin as he absently runs his fingers through them.

“I don’t think we need to believe in anything ‘greater’, Cas. And you- you’re not a war machine, man, you… you’re already the kind of angel my mom believes in. Look at yourself, look at- at everything you’ve done. You save kids, you grow flowers, you… you managed to comfort Jo about her dad.”

Dean turns to face Castiel only to find the angel watching him with a tender expression. He doesn’t even bother trying to bite back his smile.

“I mean it, Cas. I… I wouldn’t trade the past couple months with you for the world. You don’t need to try to be anything new, you… you’re amazing the way you are.”


	10. Chapter 9

October comes and goes in the blink of an eye. They harvest the summer wheat and replant the field with the seeds of winter wheat; through it all, Castiel’s aster remains hardy and vibrant, lasting through the first few frosts before it begins to wilt. When the nights turn cold, Dean tracks down some old insulation and begins work on the Batcave again.

The leaves change color and the geese on the pond gather into a large flock for migration. Every day, there is something new about autumn for Castiel to find fascinating. He enjoys roasted pumpkin seeds the most, and Dean finds himself helping Ellen in the kitchen more often just so he can make extra for Castiel.

Whenever it is warm enough, Dean and Castiel are outside for as long as they can manage, doing exercises to strengthen Castiel’s wing. He’s convinced that his molt will hit by midwinter, and he’s determined to start flying again the moment his feathers grow in.

Jo comes out with them on occasion, and though she and Castiel will have long conversations or go off on short walks without Dean, she never allows herself to be truly alone with the angel. Even so, she squirrels away a piece of cake on her birthday and takes it out to the Batcave for Castiel to sample. Dean knows that she would hit him if he were to comment on it, but Jo and Castiel’s tentative friendship makes him smile.

It’s the Sunday before Thanksgiving when Mary clears her throat during lunch and brings Dean’s new rhythm to a screeching halt. He’s got a forkful of canned green beans halfway to his mouth that he nearly drops when she speaks.

“I was thinking it might be nice to invite John and Kate for the weekend.”

Sam snorts his milk and nearly chokes, though the excitement on his face is a clear contrast to Dean’s apprehension. Ash reaches over to pound Sam on the back. Dean sets his fork down with a clatter.

“Why?”

“Well, so you boys can spend time with your father and brother.”

“Half-brother,” Dean mutters sullenly.

Mary pointedly ignores this comment. “Adam is nearly five, and you’ve hardly had the chance to spend any time with him this year. I’m willing to bet he would be over the moon about spending the weekend with you.”

“Yeah!” Sam chimes in. Dean wrinkles his nose at how deep his baby brother’s voice is starting to get. “We can put them up in my room- sorry, Ash, _our_ room, if you’re okay with that- and I’ll sleep in the basement or something.”

Ellen laughs lightly, shaking her head at Sam’s enthusiasm. “If you want, Mary, I can go with you to Lawrence. Two is safer than one, after all.”

Mary smiles demurely. “Thank you, Ellen, but I was actually thinking Dean should go.” Dean opens his mouth but Mary silences him before he can protest by holding up a hand. “I think it would mean a lot to your father if you were the one to invite him, honey.”

“Yeah, except that I don’t give a shit about having him here.”

“Don’t talk to your mother that way, boy,” Samuel chips in from the other end of the table.

“Sorry, Pa. But you agree with me, right?”

Samuel shrugs, then coughs into his napkin and wheezes a sigh. “John Winchester is sure as hell not my favorite person in the world, but you know your mother, Dean. You can’t change her mind once she’s decided on something. May as well just go to Lawrence and hope he doesn’t want to come.”

“Ugh.”

Sam scowls in Dean’s direction. “I’ll go, Mom. Some of us actually _want_ to see Dad.”

Dean sticks out his tongue, figuring he’ll get in less trouble for that than flipping Sam off. “I could gladly go through life never seeing his miserable face again,” he grumbles.

“Alright, enough,” Mary snaps, leveling Dean with a cool stare. “You promised me you wouldn’t pick sides during the divorce, Dean. That still applies. Your father and I have had our issues and gotten past them. It’s time you did, too.”

“Sorry, Mom, but it won’t work. I can’t leave the farm.”

“It’s one night. I’m sure the cows will be fine.”

“But-”

Dean cuts himself off, realizing he can’t exactly tell Mary that he can’t leave the farm because he’s harboring his best friend- who is an angel, by the way, but it’s fine, don’t worry, he’s not dangerous- in a remodeled clubhouse in the woods. He snaps his mouth shut, trying and failing to think of another excuse on the spot.

Mary raises an eyebrow and waits for him to say something. When he doesn’t, she reaches across the table to pat his hand gently.

“I thought it would be best if both you boys went. You can stay the night, and the walk won’t be as bad if you take two of the horses.”

“Hey, Dean,” Jo says suddenly, just loud enough to get his attention. “I can hold down the fort while you’re gone. No need to worry about the rooster getting out, I can handle him.”

Dean shoots Jo a relieved look and mouths a quick ‘thank you’ before anyone can start to question what she’s talking about. Sam, thankfully, has taken hold of the conversation by complaining loudly about having to travel with Dean.

Mary rolls her eyes with a laugh. “It’ll do you boys good to spend some time together.”

Sam feigns retching, and Dean kicks him under the table. This spurs a quick scuffle that ends with Dean giving Sam a noogie. The rest of the meal passes peacefully, friendly chatter interrupted only by a few coughing fits from Samuel.

Jo follows Dean to his attic bedroom once they’ve cleared the table. She plops on the bed while he rummages in his dresser for a clean change of clothes to toss into his duffel bag. After a few minutes of this without any result, she stands back up and places a hand on Dean’s arm to guide him backwards.

“Hey. Calm down. The angel will be fine for one night. I’ll take him some food after the cows are in.”

“You can’t call him an angel, Jo, he-”

“Hates it, I know, I know. Cas, Castiel, Feathers, Birdman, whatever; I’m going to play nice, alright?”

Dean sinks against the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, duffle bag clutched in his hands and eyes locked on the model impala. Jo settles beside him and rubs his arm.

“What’s really bothering you? I know this is about more than just leaving Castiel.”

“I just… I don’t know if I can do this. If I can invite my dad back here. I don’t… I have nothing to say to him.”

“I bet you do, Dean. I know you don’t want to see him, but it’s been almost a year. Maybe you should go just for some closure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Say goodbye. I know he’s nothing like how my dad was, but… If you’ve made up your mind that you’re never going to see him again, you need to find a way to let him go. Otherwise, if anything ever happened to him, you’d regret a lot of things.”

Dean groans, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shit, Jo, I’m sorry. I can’t complain about my dad when-”

“Dean, it’s fine. You don’t have to have a perfect relationship with your dad just because mine is dead. Actually, that might be worse. All I’m saying is that if you don’t see him now, and something happens… you’re going to regret it.”

“Yeah…”

Jo draws a deep breath and pats her hands against her legs, sweeping her eyes around the attic as the tension dissipates. “Hey, is it cool if I look through some of this stuff?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Go for it. Most of it is just junk that Pa never got rid of, anyway.”

“Cool.”

“Why?”

“Nothing, I just- … had a thought, that’s all.”

Turning off the farm’s drive and onto the road to Lawrence is the hardest thing Dean has had to do in quite some time. Not physically, of course; one twitch of the reins and Rosie happily begins trotting down the country lane. Plus, Mary had already kissed his forehead and told him that angels were watching over him well before he’d gotten Rosie tacked up. But mentally, Dean is still kicking himself for agreeing to this.

He doesn’t want to leave the farm to Mary- she’s already stretched thin caring for the family and worrying about Samuel in all her free time. He doesn’t want to leave Castiel behind- no matter how much he trusts Jo, he’d prefer to go to the Batcave himself. He’s made the farm into his life and he hates the thought of leaving it behind, even for a night.

He’s been on the road with Sam for a half an hour, lost in his thoughts, before Sam rides up beside him. Paul, the farm’s sole gelding, nickers softly to Rosie, who snorts in response. Sam clears his throat.

“You can stay at Bobby’s again. I won’t tell Mom.”

Dean scoffs. To tell the truth, he’d been thinking about it, but Mary had caught him in the barn and made him promise that he would actually go see John. And as much as he’s dreading it, he doesn’t want to break a promise to his mom.

“How chivalrous of you.”

“Well you don’t have to be such a jerk about it!” Sam snaps.

“How am I being a jerk? You’re the one who whines like a bitch whenever I don’t come with you to see Dad. I’m coming this time, so shut up.”

Sam is quiet, and for a few minutes the only sound is hoofbeats on gravel. A turkey startles into the brush as they come around a bend. After another moment, Sam’s stormy silence is unbearable. Dean growls his frustration and barely keeps himself from tugging on Rosie’s reins.

“Ugh, fine, _what_?!”

“I just don’t see why you won’t admit that you hate him,” Sam says, voice cool and level in the way it is when he thinks he’s being diplomatic.

His comment derails Dean’s train of thought. He frowns, shoulders slumping.

“I don’t- … Sam, I don’t hate him. He’s our dad. I just… I can’t forgive the choices he’s made, and we don’t see eye-to-eye. He’s not pleasant to be around, that’s all.”

“What ‘choices’ are you talking about? I mean, that’s got to be what this is all about, right, because you and Pa disagree all the time but you don’t hate him!”

“Drop it, Sam.”

“No, I want to know. Is this about Kate? I thought you liked her.”

“Kate is fine, she’s not-”

“Well, then, what? Are you lying? Mom and Dad were divorced way before he met Kate, so-”

“No, they weren’t! They were split up for _six months_, Sam, that isn’t ‘way before’, and they got the goddamn divorce _because_ of Kate.”

Sam frowns. “But I thought…”

“_Fuck_,” Dean says softly. He squeezes his eyes shut a moment and draws a long breath while pinching the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat after a few tense seconds, hoping that he’ll remain calm while explaining this to Sam.

He doesn’t.

“You were just a kid back then, Sammy, and Mom didn’t think you should know about it all, but _god damn_, kid, I don’t know if you’re actually stupid or just woefully ignorant at this point. Dad isn’t this fucking golden man that you think he is, he never has been. Dad… when we were little, Dad would just disappear. Sometimes for months. And every single time, he was on a bender. When he was home, he was always picking fights with Mom. It was… worse, before you started school. Once you hit kindergarten, he was better for a few years; at least, the benders were shorter. And then Mom found out he was cheating on her with Kate, and she gave him an ultimatum, and he chose Kate over his family. So we moved in with Pa and they got divorced.”

Sam pulls up on the reigns, looking distraught as he absorbs this new information. Paul stamps one hoof impatiently, calming only when Dean stops Rosie beside him. Dean sighs.

“Look, Sam, I-”

“Don’t talk to me,” Sam snarls, suddenly urging Paul into a quick trot.

Dean tilts his head back and curses every higher power that might be listening, then whirls Rosie and hurries to catch up to Sam. They don’t speak for the remainder of the ride into Lawrence. Sam doesn’t say anything at all, not even when they stop at Bobby’s to drop off the horses and Rumsfeld comes bounding excitedly out of the house. Dean visits with Bobby briefly, making sure to thank him for taking the horses overnight and to apologize for Sam’s unusually sullen behavior.

It isn’t until they’re in the hall outside John’s apartment that Sam finally looks at Dean and says, “Don’t be a dick,” and knocks.

Kate is the one to answer the door, much to Dean’s relief, and she gasps excitedly when she sees the two of them. Sam breaks into a wide smile and allows himself to be enveloped in a tight hug. Dean stands back and waves awkwardly.

Kate ushers them inside and closes the door behind them, chattering the entire time about what a nice surprise it is to see them. She’s obviously unsure how to act around Dean, so he feels a little guilty when she still smiles warmly at him, but his plan hasn’t changed; he wants to spend as little time here as possible. He wonders if he could get away with leaving Sam here until Thursday.

John is sitting in his armchair, assembling the base of a tiny Camaro, when they enter the living room. He glances up at the sound of voices and immediately locks eyes with Dean. Then his gaze slides over to Sam, and he smiles.

“Hey, boys. Good to see you! Sammy, come give your old man a hug. God, you grew a lot over the summer.”

Sam laughs as he hugs John, and immediately afterward sits on the floor beside the armchair so he can help with the model car while recounting his version of the past few months. John carefully invites Dean to help with the car as well, but Dean is thankfully saved from having to answer by a young voice shouting “No way!” and a small weight slamming into his legs.

If he had been just a bit older, Adam’s attack hug probably would have turned into a somewhat effective football tackle. As he is now, however, all he manages to do is knock Dean off-balance briefly. He ruffles his half-brother’s hair and forces himself to laugh.

“Hey, little man, what’s goin’ on?”

Adam’s eyes light up. He grabs Dean’s hand and begins to drag him toward his bedroom. Dean allows it to happen, glad for a valid excuse to avoid John. He plays with Adam until Kate calls sweetly from the kitchen that it’s time for dinner.

Adam seems reluctant to relinquish his time with Dean, so Dean scoops the squealing boy off the floor and swings him onto his shoulders. Contrary to popular belief- also known as Sam’s opinion- Dean hasn’t had a problem with Adam since the kid was only a few weeks old. But even that wasn’t Adam’s fault; Dean was still bitter about the divorce, John’s quick wedding, and the fact that Adam was born so close to Sam’s birthday.

Adam has always been a happy child who gets excited to see his older brothers, and Dean- just like when Sam was younger- finds it impossible to resist him. The only thing that could color their relationship is Dean’s ambivalence towards their father. But for Adam’s sake, Dean makes sure to play nice with John whenever the little boy is around.

Dean ‘accidentally’ bonks Adam gently against the ceiling as he lifts him back off his shoulders and sets him in his booster seat at the table. The small boy shrieks with laughter and accuses his brother of doing it on purpose. Dean’s response is just to shrug and ruffle Adam’s hair.

There are a few times throughout the meal that Dean notices John watching him, but the older man doesn’t say anything. The conversation is spearheaded by Sam, who apparently hasn’t become disillusioned with their father despite Dean’s outburst on the road. Dean feels a little guilty about losing his temper, but he hadn’t said anything he feels is untrue, so it’s fairly easy not to regret it.

Kate asks for help clearing the table after dinner. Dean quickly volunteers, hoping that John will spend some time with Sam and Adam in the living room. Thankfully, he does, which leaves Dean alone in the kitchen with his stepmother. They make an efficient team, but as Dean is placing the last clean dish into the cupboard, Kate clears her throat and speaks in a low voice so her words don’t carry.

“How’s your grandfather doing?”

Dean frowns as he closes the cupboard door. “Uh… he’s okay, I guess. Grumpy, but that’s normal. Why?”

“Well, I suppose I’m a little curious. And concerned, of course- you and Sam are my boys just as much as Adam is, and I want to make sure you’re doing alright. So Samuel’s following his bedrest orders, is he?”

“Um. When we can get him to agree, or when he’s having a rough day, yeah. How did you know about…?”

“I diagnosed him.”

“Oh.” Dean coughs awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to this. “Um. Mom… Mom never mentioned that.”

Kate smiles sadly. “I wouldn’t expect her to. Cancer is big news, after all. She seemed to handle it pretty well, though, at least at first. She’s a strong woman, your mother. You’re a lot like her, you know.”

Dean waits a moment for an explanation to that statement, but it never comes. Instead, Kate pats his shoulder and makes her way to the living room. He’s still puzzling over it a couple hours later when she and John leave the room to put Adam to bed.

It’s a lot of effort to avoid one-on-one time with John in such a small apartment, but Dean manages it. He and Sam flip a coin for the spare bedroom, and Dean winds up on the pullout couch bed in the living room. Well after everyone else has gone to sleep, Dean is lying awake, staring at the ceiling through the darkness.

Between Kate’s statement and Jo’s advice back at the farm, there’s too much going on in his mind for Dean to fall asleep. Not to mention the fact that he’s usually awake now anyway, huddled inside a cocoon of black feathers and blue eyes and warm laughter. He’s contemplating the logistics of leaving early in the morning and letting Sam stay until Thanksgiving when he hears the telltale creak of a door.

Dean props himself up on his elbows, expecting to see Sam creeping down the hall, but John is the one who rounds the corner. Dean flops back down with a groan.

“Hey, bud,” John half-whispers.

“What do you want?”

John hesitates before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. It briefly occurs to Dean that he’s never really seen his father get nervous.

“I wanted to talk to you, Dean. I didn’t miss the way you’ve been avoiding me all night. Or all year, for that matter. I just want… I want to know what you’ve been up to. I want to know what’s going on in your life.

“Same old, same old,” Dean mutters. “Feeding cows, listening to Sam bitch about schools being closed, surviving the apocalypse. Look, what does it matter? Why do you care?”

John draws a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his stubbly beard. It’s tinged with grey, now, as is the hair around his temples. His eyes are tired.

“Because you’re my boy?” He shrugs helplessly. “You’ve always been your mother’s son, Dean. You’re so much like her. Even when you were tiny, you were always glued to her leg, and you’d tell her everything and I… I hardly got to hear any of it. I missed a lot when you were growing up. You and I never had a relationship anything like what you and Mary have… I guess it was no surprise that you stuck close to her during the divorce, huh? I- I don’t blame you, Dean, I really don’t. You were right to take Mary’s side-”

“There are no sides, remember? Mom’s still pretty adamant about that.”

John chuckles wryly. “Well, we certainly tried, but you and I both know there’s always sides. I just… Do you remember Sam’s twelfth birthday? You boys came to the hospital to meet Adam, and you… you couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as me, so you went to wait in the lobby.”

_Are you going to leave them, too?_

The words he’d spat in John’s face still ring in the back of Dean’s head. At the time he’d though his frustration was with Adam, and he’d hated himself. But it had always been his strained relationship with John that had fostered more and more bitterness as the years went on.

Dean nods. John sighs.

“You told me that if I wanted to be a good dad, I should have been around from the start. I never forgot that, Dean, and… I’ve really been trying. Adam was a clean slate, but with you and Sam, I just- I… I can’t change the past. I can’t get back all the time I missed with you. I can’t erase all the fights with Mary. I can’t ignore the fact that I had an affair. I can’t change _any_ of that. I was a terrible husband and an even worse father, and I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for that. I don’t want you to. I just want you to give me a chance to be a better man, a better father. I am with Kate and Adam, I hope I am with Sam, and I- I really want to try to be better for you, too, Dean.”

“I don’t need a dad anymore.”

John sucks in a sharp breath. He purses his lips and nods; he’s clearly upset, but he’s accepting Dean’s refusal graciously.

“Alright. If you don’t want me to be your dad, that’s fine. Just… let me stay in your life, okay?”

“Whatever,” Dean says, hoping he sounds disinterested and dismissive despite the fact that his chest feels tight and there’s a lump in his throat and his eyes are burning. He wishes he could talk to Jo and Castiel about this.

“Sam says your mom invited us out for the weekend,” John starts, sounding oddly hopeful. “I figured I should get a second opinion.”

Dean huffs, and even he isn’t sure if it’s a scoff or a laugh. “It would make Sam happy. Pus, Adam likes the goats. Or… he used to, at least.”

“What about you, bud? We’ll stay here if it makes you more comfortable.”

“No, it’s… ugh. You can come for Thanksgiving, but don’t expect open arms. Mom might be over everything that happened, but Pa sure as hell ain’t.”

John chuckles. “Yeah, your grandpa never did like me much. Had good reason, though.”

A yawn cuts him off before he can say anything more, so he reaches over to clap Dean on the shoulder, then stands. Dean thinks that’s going to be the end of their conversation, but then John pauses at the start of the hallway to glance back at his son.

“I, uh… I love you, Dean. I hope you know that.”

His gruff voice is tender, and he’s gone before Dean can even fathom a response. Dean stares at the ceiling somewhat numbly until he hears John’s door click shut, and then he can’t hold it in any longer. Six years of anger dissipates and a lifetime of repressed disappointment and loneliness flood to the surface. He sucks in a shuddering breath and covers his face with his hands, digging his palms into his eyes as if the pressure will keep the tears from leaking out. His shoulders shake and he wants nothing more than to disappear behind a wall of black feathers and hide so the universe cannot see him crying alone in the dark.


	11. Chapter 10

Dean is still a bit emotionally raw in the morning, and he stumbles through the first few hours in a haze. He isn’t sure he’s ready to let his guard down around John again, but he does offer a handshake in place of a hug. He doesn’t miss the way John’s eyes glisten, or how he has to clear his throat before he tells the boys to stay safe.

They traipse their way from the apartment to Bobby’s place at the edge of the city. Once again, Rumsfeld comes bounding excitedly out of the house. Sam shoots Dean a dirty look when he readily steps into Bobby’s arms. After a few minutes of laughing with Bobby, Dean is starting to feel almost normal again, and the prospect of going home makes it easier to saddle the horses and leave Lawrence behind once more.

Sam says very little on the ride back to the farm. As they come up the long drive, Mary is a familiar sight stationed on the porch swing with the old shawl around her shoulders. She waves when she catches sight of her sons. They’ve just ridden up to the barn and dismounted when she crosses the yard to join them. Sam grumbles good-naturedly as Mary pulls him into a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re back safe! Oh, I missed you boys _so much_!”

“It was just one night,” Sam says, at the same time as Dean says, “Missed you, too, Mom.”

Mary takes Paul’s reins and pats Sam’s back so she can gently push him towards the house. “Why don’t you go help Pa, baby? He’s having a hard time getting around today.”

Dean watches as Sam crosses the yard, an ominous feeling settling over him. His hand tightens on Rosie’s reins, knuckles going white. “Mom?” he asks, slowly so his voice is steady. “What’s going on?”

“Hmm? Oh! Oh, no, honey, everything is fine,” Mary hurries to say. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. Pa’s fine, it’s just a rough day. I wanted to ask how it went in Lawrence.”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. He turns away so he can lead Rosie into the barn and place her in a set of crossties. Mary follows suit with Paul and replaces his bridle with his halter. Dean does the same for Rosie and scratches her forehead as he sighs.

“I dunno, Mom. They’ll be here sometime Thursday morning. I think Kate was planning on heading back home on Saturday.”

Mary heaves Paul’s saddle off and sets it to the side. She tosses Dean a curry brush once he has done the same for Rosie.

“Well, that’s nice. I think Adam will like seeing the goats again.” She glances over at Dean and her brows knit together. “What’s on your mind, honey?”

Dean drags the brush to a halt on Rosie’s flank, staring at the tracks it has left in her hair, then resumes his circular motions. “I just… are you really okay with Dad being here? With his wife? And kid?”

Mary shrugs and smiles somewhat bittersweetly. She pats Paul’s neck. “John and I were friends long before we started dating, Dean. It was really hard not having a relationship with him after the divorce. I’ll admit, going to the wedding wasn’t easy. But Adam? He’s your brother. He might not be mine biologically, but he’s family. And Kate, she… she takes good care of you boys. That’s all I could ever ask for.”

“It’s not hard to be around her, after what she did?”

“Well. It wasn’t her fault your father was married. Besides, all of that was six years ago. I’ve long since grown past animosity. And your father, he- … he’s been making an effort with Kate. I can’t resent him for that; it just goes to show that we weren’t right for each other in the long run. He gave me you and your brother, and you boys are a greater gift than any romantic relationship. I would rather he better himself with someone else than remain unhappy with me.”

“So… you really think he’s changed?”

“I think he’s sober. And that… that makes it easier to grow. In fact, I’m very proud of him.”

Rosie nickers softly and turns her head towards Dean as far as she can while still in the crossties. Dean strokes her velvety nose absently, and she snuffles against his hand. Mary leaves Paul for a moment so she can walk over and cup Dean’s face in her hands.

“Your father’s personal growth does not erase or negate what happened when you were young. You are not obligated to forgive him- or me, for that matter- and you are allowed to feel whatever you feel. No one can tell you what to think of your father; that’s your choice and yours alone.”

Dean flattens his lips, breathing deeply through his nose. He brings one hand up to cover Mary’s against his cheek. Her blue eyes are earnest as she studies his face. He leans down to kiss the top of her head and hide his face in her hair.

“I love you, Mom.”

“_Oh_,” she breathes, sounding like she’s on the verge of tears. Her arms come around his shoulders in a tight hug. “I love you to the ends of the earth and back, baby.”

Jo meets Dean behind the barn late in the evening on Wednesday, long after the barn chores have been finished. In the few days since Lawrence, this is where he’s been spending most of his time, staring at the barren tree line. Jo shivers, so Dean offers her his gloves, shoves his hands into his pockets, and they set off across the fields together.

Castiel is waiting eagerly when they arrive at the Batcave. The small space isn’t heated well, but it’s significantly warmer than outside, and Castiel never seems to get cold anyway. As Dean and Jo remove their coats, Castiel begins talking animatedly about the herd of deer that had passed by earlier in the day. Jo sneaks around behind Dean so she can shove her cold hands under his shirt while he’s distracted by Castiel.

He yelps and jumps away from her, spewing curses while she cackles. A moment later, Castiel brushes the back of Dean’s hand with his fingertips, and there is the familiar feeling of faint electricity as warmth washes over his entire body. Dean glances at Castiel, surprised, but the angel is watching Jo with the sort of intensity that suggests he is proposedly ignoring Dean. There is a slight tinge of pink on Castiel’s cheeks.

Jo stays while Castiel eats the pilfered food they’ve brought and asks each of them about their day, then excuses herself so she can head back to the house before it gets too late. Dean stays behind, hunches down in the blanket nest with Castiel. After Jo has been gone a few minutes, Castiel scoots close enough that his silky feathers come in contact with Dean’s arm, despite the wing being tucked away.

Even though the silence is a comfortable one, Dean can feel the restless energy washing off of Castiel. He raises an eyebrow and gently smacks Castiel’s thigh with the back of his hand.

“Alright, spit it out. What’s up?”

Castiel squints at him in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You’re practically vibrating, dude. Why are you so worked up?”

Castiel’s expression clears. He beams and, in lieu of answering, stretches his right wing. The movement is slow and stiff, and all the missing feathers are more apparent like this, but it’s the first time Dean has seen this wing move independently. He can feel his eyes practically bulging out of his face but has no way to stop himself.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, awestruck before Castiel’s infectious excitement hits him like a freight train. “Holy shit! Your wing! You did it, Cas!”

Both wings bob as Castiel nods his head. “I have been practicing every day after you return home, and Jo helped me when you were gone. I- I still have a bit of trouble, of course, but I _am _healing! After my molt, I will be able to fly!”

The last comment makes Dean’s chest hurt, just for a moment, though he’s not sure why. He musters the brightest smile he can and meets Castiel’s eyes, hoping he can see that Dean is being sincere.

“I’m really proud of you, Feathers.”

Castiel’s deep blue gaze softens. His palpable excitement shifts to something warmer, more affectionate, and suddenly the moment feels different. A quick series of emotions flits across the angel’s face and his fingers twitch; for a moment it seems like he’s going to say something, or reach over for Dean, but he does neither. Instead, he unfurls both wings and wraps them around Dean in a gesture that feels almost like a hug, though far more intimate.

“Thank you, Dean,” he murmurs, voice low.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He nods, unable to form words. He half expects to fall over when Castiel withdraws his wings. Through no small miracle, he’s sure, he manages to stay upright. His skin tingles where Castiel’s feathers have brushed against him, and he has to bite down on the impulse to wrap himself back in the angel’s wings.

Dean clears his throat with a slightly breathless laugh. “S-so. I, uh, I- I had an idea a while back, and I didn’t mention it ’cause I wasn’t sure it would work with your wing and all, but, uh… well, I guess it’s a different story now.”

“I suppose it is,” Castiel replies, amused. “What did you have in mind?”

“Do you remember the old silo?”

“Beside the barn? Yes. Why?”

“Do you want to climb it? The ladder is caged, and there’s only so much room, that’s why I didn’t say anything when you couldn’t move your wing, ’cause I didn’t want it to get caught on anything and hurt you worse, or-”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts.

Dean flushes. He can feel it in the tips of his ears. “Yeah?”

“I would love to go somewhere with you.”

The little grass that remains crunches beneath their feet when they emerge from the woods several minutes later. The frost sparkles in the moonlight and their breath forms tiny clouds in the cool night air. They walk shoulder-to-shoulder across the fields, bumping lightly together every few steps. Castiel hesitates near the back of the barn.

“Are you sure no one will see?” he asks.

Dean glances towards the dark house and shrugs. “If anyone’s even awake, it’ll be Jo. C’mon, Feathers, it’ll be fine. I want you to see this.”

Dean is the first to start the climb up the side of the old silo. He pauses about twenty feet up so he can watch Castiel fold his wings close against his back and make sure he fits inside the safety cage around the ladder. Once Castiel has caught up to him, Dean resumes his climb. He clambers out onto the cold metal roof and scoots to the side so he can reach a hand out for Castiel to grab onto. Once they are both up safely, Dean helps Castiel to his feet.

“Well?” he says, cheeks pink and nose red.

Dean’s fingers are cold where they’re still wrapped around Castiel’s hands, until there comes the familiar spark of electricity that he is starting to recognize as Grace. Castiel opens his mouth to reply as he glances around them but doesn’t say anything. Dean can see the angel’s breath leave in a whoosh, hot air clouding in front of them before dissipating just as quickly. He grins, unable to take his eyes off of Castiel as his mouth falls open in awe.

The night sky is littered with stars, each tiny pinprick of light a thousand times brighter than the moon, and they stretch into eternity, wrapping like a gauzy curtain around the earth. The farm is bathed in starlight, frost highlighting the branches of the oak tree and the old weathervane on top of the house. Ice on the pond reflects the sky like a mirror, though it can’t capture as many stars as Dean sees in Castiel’s eyes. The angel turns in a slow circle, feathers ruffling in poorly concealed wonder, and drops a tender gaze back to Dean.

“It feels like flying,” he whispers, and Dean thinks he could get lost in the pure fascination in Castiel’s voice. He coughs to clear his throat but finds himself speechless as Castiel’s wings wrap around him once more. “_Thank you_, Dean.”

Dean chuckles awkwardly. He rubs the back of his neck, trying desperately to ignore the heat in his cheeks and ears as he feels himself flush. “It’s really no big deal, you don’t need to thank me.”

“Of course I do. Dean, you have shown me more of the world than I could ever have experienced on my own.”

“No way,” Dean mutters, lowering himself down onto the cold metal roof. He stretches his legs out in front of him and tugs Castiel down beside him; the angel immediately wraps a wing around his back to keep him warm. “I haven’t taken you out of a ten-acre radius in three months.”

“I never meant distance,” Castiel says, and the amusement in his voice warms Dean more than any exchange of Grace ever could. “One half of one farm shared in fondness is worth a great deal more than any great stretch of land.”

Dean rolls his eyes and knocks their shoulders together. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly cheesy?” He laughs as Castiel’s head tilts in confusion. “Nevermind, Feathers. Don’t worry about it. Hey, do you know any constellations?”

Castiel shrugs. His feathers tickle Dean’s neck as his wing follows the motion of his shoulders. “I doubt that you know them by the same names.”

Dean leans closer to Castiel so he can see the angel’s sightline, then points to a cluster of stars just above the house. “So if that one is Orion, what would you call it?”

They remain on top of the silo, trading constellations for hours, until a faint yowling drifts up to them and Dean nearly cries laughing when he realizes that Muffin has climbed halfway up the ladder and gotten herself stuck trying to get to Castiel. They take the tortoiseshell cat back to the Batcave with them after they extract her from the ladder cage; she rides on Castiel’s shoulders the entire way, purring loudly into his ear. It isn’t until they settle into the blanket nest that Muffin moves, and then only to wedge herself between the two men and continue purring.

Dean tells himself that he hasn’t left the Batcave yet because he can’t move when the cat is half on his lap; in reality, he just can’t find the will to get up and leave the soft nest. Castiel’s silky feathers brush against his arm, and the angel is warm by his side, and Muffin is making biscuits against his thigh. He doesn’t realize he’s started to fall asleep until he feels Castiel’s fingers brush lightly against his cheek; there comes a short pulse of Grace, tingling against his skin, and he hears Castiel’s voice whisper softly nearby.

“Rest, my dear. I will watch over you.”

John and Kate arrive around noon on Saturday, Adam walking dutifully between them until they reach the old oak, at which point he breaks away and runs gleefully up the muddy drive to where Dean is waiting on the front porch with Sam. Adam slams into Dean’s legs the same way he always does, but quickly releases him to jump at Sam. The screen door creaks open behind them, and Adam gasps.

Mary grins and opens her arms. “Hi, Adam!”

“Mary!” he crows, all but abandoning Sam in favor of hugging her.

“My goodness, what are they feeding you?” Mary asks, playful, as she tickles Adam’s sides. “You’re _huge_!”

Adam laughs, squirming in Mary’s grasp. “Mom says I’m having a growth spot!”

“Spurt, darling, a growth _spurt_,” Kate says as she climbs the porch steps.

Mary chuckles and gives her a one-armed hug, and both women squeeze Adam between them when he announces that their hug is crushing him. John is the last to make his way onto the porch, and Sam falls into his father’s arms. Dean watches from his place beside the railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Don’t encourage him, Mary, or he’ll turn out like Sam.”

Mary tosses her head back and laughs when Sam lets out an indignant “Hey!” and fails to step away from John before getting caught in a headlock and receiving a noogie. Adam grins, though he’s clearly not sure what’s happening. Kate helps Sam extract himself from John’s grasp, gently chiding her husband and smoothing down Sam’s scruffy hair. John and Mary embrace, and Mary kisses his cheek.

The five of them look like a family, Dean thinks, and it hurts even though he’s not sure why.

John catches Dean’s arm as they all shuffle into the house, holding him back as the door closes behind them. He waits until the others have filed into the living room, then gestures towards Mary, who is wrapped in Deanna’s shawl.

“How long has she been wearing that?”

Dean barely resists the urge to pull away from John. He shrugs. “August. A day or two after the diagnosis, I think.”

“So Samuel is…?”

“Pa is fine, Dad. Don’t get your hopes up- he’s in the kitchen, and he definitely still doesn’t like you.”

John huffs a laugh and claps Dean on the shoulder. “I don’t blame the old bastard.”

Dean watches John as he ambles over to the rest of the family, then makes a face. “Neither do I,” he mumbles, and reluctantly joins them.

After all the introductions have been made, Jo sidles over and leans against the wall beside him, absently twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Dean raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t look at him. She nudges his arm with her elbow after a few minutes of silence.

“How you doin’?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s… not that bad, I guess. Not yet, at least. He’s only been here ten minutes.”

“Right. Well, I did my fair share of cooking already, so let’s bounce. Wanna go to the Batcave?”

“God, yes. But we- Jo, if anyone followed us…”

“Ugh. You’re right. We could… I dunno, show Adam the goats, or something?”

“… You want to take my half-brother to the barn and entertain him? Why? No offense, Jo, but you really don’t seem like someone who likes kids.”

Jo shrugs. “Don’t really care about them either way. And honestly, I kind of don’t care about your brother, either. You just seem like you could use a break before this all gets real.”

“Real?”

“Yeah, real.” She glances over at Dean and looks away almost as quickly. “C’mon, don’t pretend you don’t think there’ll be a big fight. It’s a family holiday, that’s just what happens. Not to mention, they’re staying the weekend. You need to decompress while you still have a chance.”

In the end, Jo is right. They spend an hour or so in the barn with Adam, who gushes over each of the goats while Dean and Jo lean against the railing of the pen. The meal goes smoothly, aside from a few coughing fits from Samuel, and afterward the family gathers in the living room once again. Samuel snoozes in his armchair, half a piece of pie resting on the dessert plate on his stomach. Ash ropes Sam, Dean, and Jo into a game of cards while John, Kate, and Ellen chat on the couch. Adam naps on Mary’s lap in the other armchair, and she cards her fingers through his hair. It’s comfortable, and for the first time in a long time, Dean feels like his family is whole.

A few hours pass before Kate carries Adam up to Sam and Ash’s room. Mary trails behind her, talking quietly. Jo leans back against the couch and smiles when Ellen reaches over to take her hand. Sam takes the lapse in conversation as an opportunity to remove Samuel’s pie and take the plate back into the kitchen. When Mary and Kate return, Ash manages to convince them that the whole family needs to play a round of cards before bed.

They end the night laughing. Dean helps Samuel up the stairs to his bedroom, and he’s just gotten the old man settled when Mary slips inside. Samuel coughs into a handkerchief. Dean pretends he doesn’t see the speckles of blood on the cloth when Samuel sets it on the bedside table.

“Hey, Ma. What’s up?”

Mary smiles softly and makes her way over to sit on the edge of the bed and smooth down Samuel’s blankets. “I was hoping you’d be in here. I wanted to talk to you both.”

Samuel groans and makes a face. “Mary-”

“Dad.”

Mary raises her eyebrows and gives her father an imploring look. He holds her gaze for a moment, then wheezes a sigh. Dean bites his cheek so he won’t laugh at how easily his grandfather gives in to Mary. He takes a seat beside her when she pats the edge of the bed.

“I just wanted to say that I’m very proud of both of you. I know neither of you have the easiest relationship with John after everything that happened, but I… I really appreciate that you’re letting him stay. And you both behaved yourselves today,” she adds with a chuckle.

Samuel grumbles something under his breath and coughs again, wincing at the pain. “He’s a real piece of work, you know.”

“Seconded,” Dean says, and Mary lets out an exasperated sigh. She’s still smiling when she takes his hand in her own, though.

“Like I said. I’m very proud. Thank you both very much.”

Samuel rolls his eyes. “I’ll kick his ass if he does anything stupid. I hope you know that.”

Dean laughs, and Mary shoves his shoulder. “You two are the worst!”

“What if we give him fair warning?”

Mary groans. “You’re both hard to love.”

Samuel chuckles like he’s suppressing another coughing fit. He reaches over to brush a strand of Mary’s hair behind her ear. “Just like your mother, you know that? Beautiful, and smart… and stubborn as hell.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “I dunno, Pa, I think the stubborn comes from you.”

“You watch your mouth, boy.”

Mary sighs heavily, and both Dean and Samuel dissolve into laughter. Samuel is cut short by coughs that wrack his body, but he grits his teeth and smiles once he’s able to breathe again. His expression is softer than Dean has ever seen it when he meets Mary’s eyes.

“I love you endlessly, baby girl. And your wretched spawn,” he adds with a wink in Dean’s direction.

Dean sticks out his tongue, earning a shit-eating grin from his grandfather. He stands and claps Samuel’s shoulder, then kisses Mary’s forehead. “I’m going to bed before either of you get any more sappy. It’s super weird and gross.”

“You love it,” Mary half-whispers in a conspiratorial tone, and Dean rolls his eyes.

Samuel gives him a nod and lifts his hand in a lazy wave when he pauses in the doorway.

“Goodnight, Mom. Pa. I, uh… love you guys.”

These are the last words Dean ever speaks to his grandfather.


	12. Chapter 11

Dean wakes to the sound of a muffled voice drifting through the floorboards. He scrubs a hand across his face and rolls to the edge of the bed, grimacing when his bare feet hit the cold wooden floors. With a yawn, he stands and stumbles across the room, then down the stairs to the second floor, where he finds Sam standing in his bedroom doorway, staring down the hall at Samuel’s closed door. Dean frowns and starts to shuffle over.

“What’s goin’ on, Sammy?”

Sam startles and knocks his elbow into the doorframe. When he looks over at Dean, his face is pale, eyes wide. He clears his throat, opens his mouth, and clears his throat again. Instantly, Dean is awake. He hurries the rest of the way and grabs Sam’s face between his hands, checking him over to see if he’s hurt.

“Sam? Are you okay? Talk to me, Sammy!”

“God, Dean, I’m fine!” Sam snaps, shoving Dean back. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, and Dean knows something else is on his mind.

“Sam…?”

“It… god, Dean, it’s Pa. He…”

“He what? What’s happening? Where’s Mom?”

Sam shrugs. “I- I don’t know. Everyone is downstairs, but Kate just called Mom up, and Mom wouldn’t let me in, and-”

“_Fuck_,” Dean breathes, and practically runs down the stairs.

Ash is keeping Adam busy playing hide and seek, and Ellen is standing in the corner with John, speaking in low tones. Jo glances up from her seat on the couch when Dean appears at the landing, and her eyes go wide.

“Dean-” she starts, but he brushes past her to get to John, who turns as he approaches.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?!” Dean demands, and John’s brow creases.

“Dean, I-”

“Don’t bullshit me! What did you do? What’s going on with Pa?”

“Dean, calm down. I haven’t seen him since last night. Your mother asked Kate to check on him when he wouldn’t wake up this morning.” He starts to reach a hand towards his son, but Dean knocks it away and takes a step back. John sighs. “I don’t know what’s happening, alright? Just… sit down a minute, I’m sure Kate will-”

Dean shoves him roughly. John staggers back, and Ellen keeps him from hitting the wall, and Dean waits a half second for him to retaliate before he pushes again, eyes burning. John allows it to happen, hands raised in surrender.

“You fucking asshole! He was fine until you got here, so what the hell did you do?”

“Calm down, let’s talk about this.”

“Stop telling me to fucking calm down! What the fuck happened?”

“_Dean_,” Jo shouts, grabbing his arm and tugging him roughly away from John and Ellen. She glowers at him, obviously trying to keep her own emotions in check. “Cut it out! If you’re gonna be ridiculous and lose your temper, you need to take it outside; Adam is _right there_,” she hisses, nodding towards the little boy.

Dean swallows hard, a rough lump forming in his throat to join the stinging in his eyes as guilt begins to burn in his gut. Adam is watching with wide, startled eyes, cowering back against Ash. John steps forward, but doesn’t reach for Dean this time.

“We can talk about this later, Dean. You should check on Sam.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean barks, jerking his arm out of Jo’s grasp and putting distance between himself and John.

He glances between Jo’s hurt expression and Adam’s frightened one, then turns and stomps his way back up the stairs. Sam meets him at the top, clearly confused. He opens his mouth, but Dean pushes past him to stalk down the hall and pound on Samuel’s bedroom door.

“Mom! Kate! Damn it, let me in!”

The door opens just far enough for Kate’s face to appear in the crack. She’s just as pale as Sam, and Dean’s anger dissipates immediately, though Kate isn’t the reason why. Just behind her, barely visible, Samuel lies still on the bed with Mary draped over his chest.

“Let him in,” Mary says, small and broken.

Kate presses her lips together and nods, stepping back to pull the door open further. Mary sniffles and wipes at her face before she looks over her shoulder. She’s clearly trying to hold herself together, but Dean can see the tear tracks on her cheeks and the shattered look in her eyes.

“Hey, honey. Can- can you grab Sam for me?”

Dean nods numbly and waves for Sam to come join him. They enter the room together; Kate slips out and closes the door behind them. And Dean feels like a kid again, small and insignificant in the grand scheme of the world. Mary extends a hand. Sam walks over to take it, and Dean trails behind, slowly realizing that this is really happening.

“Mom?” Sam asks. His voice is almost as tiny as Mary’s in the suffocating silence of the bedroom. “Is… is Pa…?”

Mary nods. “He… h-he… Kate says he went peacefully. He wasn’t waking up, so I asked her to come check on him, a-and…”

“That’s when she called you in, right? Before he-”

Sam cuts himself off and scrubs a hand over his face. Dean can feel his hands shaking.

“But he… he was supposed to have a year,” Dean mumbles, even as he knows there isn’t anything they can do.

For a moment, it looks like Mary is going to say something more, but Sam lets out a shuddering breath as he tries not to cry, and Mary’s attention diverts to pulling her youngest son against her chest. She rubs a hand over his back, tears dripping down her cheeks, and Dean feels himself shutting down. There’s no time to waste on crying; he needs to figure out what they’re going to do with the body, how they’ll have a funeral this close to the end of November, where they’ll move Samuel’s things when they clear out his bedroom. He takes a seat beside Mary and wraps an arm around her and Sam, and the bed shakes as she dissolves into quiet sobs. He rests his cheek against the top of her head and sits for a while, feeling nothing as he holds his mother and brother, and watches his grandfather’s lifeless face.

It’s well after noon by the time Ellen manages to coax Mary out of Samuel’s bedroom. Dean guides her into the hallway and hands her off to Ellen, murmuring something about making tea before he turns back and enters the bedroom alone- Sam had slipped away over an hour ago to shut himself away in his own room. He’s not entirely sure how he’s going to move the body, but he knows he needs to get Samuel’s corpse out of the house before long. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there before the door creaks open behind him. Ash and Jo come in slowly and sidle up beside him. Jo slips her hand into his and squeezes.

Wordlessly, the three of them wrap Samuel in the bedsheets and carry his body down the stairs. They lay him carefully down on the back porch, and Ash rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder for a moment before leaving him alone with Jo. She leans against his side and waits until the door has clicked shut before she speaks.

“Stop blaming your dad,” she says, barely loud enough to hear. “I know things are complicated, but you _know_ it was cancer. Samuel had a rough month, and we all tried to ignore that he was going downhill. There was nothing any of us could have done, and the fact that your dad is here is just bad timing. You can’t blame anything but cancer.”

Dean glares at the porch railing, refusing to look down at Samuel’s body. He doesn’t answer for a long while, and when he does, it’s in the form of a shrug and a grunt. He steps away from Jo and scrubs a hand over his face.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Jo. There’s a lot to take care of. I just… can you check on Sam?”

“Shouldn’t you do that?”

“Cows need milking.”

Jo sighs but doesn’t protest. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll find him. Just… be back for dinner, okay?”

Dean can feel her eyes on his back as he makes his way down the porch steps and around the corner of the house. He doesn’t stop moving until he’s made it to the barn, at which point Muffin tangles herself around his ankles. The tortoiseshell cat lets out a plaintive meow and a rumbling purr, almost as if she can sense that something has gone horribly wrong. Dean’s eyes begin to burn again, so he shakes his head and sets to work. Muffin watches from the gate of the goat pen as Dean bustles through the barn chores. They aren’t as distracting as he had hoped, and by the time he’s finished, he’s in no better of a mood than when he started.

The rest of the day passes in a blur as he gathers wood for a funeral pyre. Ash comes out of the house to help after a couple of hours, and they move Samuel’s body from the back porch as soon as they’ve finished building the pyre in the back field near the pond. Jo calls them in for dinner shortly after, and the meal is nearly silent. Compared to the jovial tone of the Thanksgiving dinner they’d shared the day before, it feels somber and wrong.

The worst part is Adam- he clears his plate without saying a word, and his silence is a horrible contrast to his usual chatter. Dean gets the sense that he isn’t entirely sure what’s happening; he was born and raised in an apocalyptic world, but this is the first time that someone he knows has died.

They light the funeral pyre at sundown. Dean watches the flames lick the orange sky until his eyes start to sting. Sam stands stoically beside him, and Kate is on Sam’s other side, holding his hand in both of her own. Adam is half-hidden behind his mother, and Ellen stands with Ash beyond where Mary is crying into John’s shoulder. Jo notices Dean staring at his parents and shuffles closer to his side.

“Dean,” she whispers, and he pretends he doesn’t hear her. She sighs heavily, but doesn’t say anything more.

As the sun slips behind the trees, Dean watches while John rubs Mary’s arm comfortingly and presses a kiss into her hair. And suddenly, it’s all too much.

“Hey!” he shouts, pulling away from Jo to storm towards John, who looks up just in time to duck out of the way of Dean’s swinging fist.

There are more than a couple of shrieks and screams, and several people yell Dean’s name, but he can’t stop. He can’t feel anything except anger.

“Dean,” John starts, and has to stumble back to avoid another punch.

“This is your fucking fault! He was _fine_ before you got here, and now he’s gone, and it’s your- fucking- fault!”

John holds his hands up in a universal surrender motion. “Dean, you know that’s not true. I’m sorry about Samuel, I am, but I-”

“You don’t get to be _sorry_,” Dean spits, shrugging off Ash’s attempt to hold him back. “You don’t get to be fucking sorry! You don’t get to waltz back into this family like you never fucking left, you don’t _get_ to hold my _mom_ like you didn’t ruin her goddamn _life_!”

Kate purses her lips, but says nothing. She pulls Adam closer and turns him by his shoulder so he can’t see what’s happening. Mary lets out a choked sob.

“Dean, stop-”

“Calm down, son, we-”

“I’m not your son! You- you _left_, you- you are _not_ part of this family, and you don’t get to act like-”

“_Dean_,” Jo shrieks.

“You need to leave,” he continues, despite the clamor behind him. “Take your shit out of my house and get off my goddamn property and _get the hell away from my mother_!”

Dean shoves at the hands that try to hold him back, ignoring the shouts and yelps behind him as Sam barely manages to catch Jo before she hits the ground.

“What the _fuck_, Dean?!”

“Sam, language,” John says instinctively. This time, Dean manages to land his punch.

“Don’t talk to him!” Dean snaps, already swinging again. “Don’t you _fucking _talk to-”

He cuts off halfway through his sentence as Mary slaps him across the face.

“_Stop_!” She howls, voice raw. “Stop it!”

Silence falls like a lead blanket. Dean raises a hand to his stinging cheek, looking at his mother in shock. Her eyes are wide, bloodshot and puffy, and her chest heaves as she draws in a shuddering breath. She looks absolutely broken, and she’s holding her hand like she can’t believe what she’s just done. John rushes to her side instead of tending to his own bloody lip and quickly blackening eye.

“Mary,” he murmurs. His next words are unintelligible.

Behind them, the fire cracks, and Dean feels the fight leave him as he realizes what he’s done. His heartrate picks up and he swears under his breath, backing away from where Mary is standing.

“Mom…”

Mary gasps suddenly, hands flying to cover her mouth as tears fill her eyes. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Dean, I-”

Sam shoves Dean roughly as he pushes past, moving to join John at Mary’s side. He looks over his shoulder with a nasty expression directed at Dean before he turns to make sure Mary is okay. Dean can’t breathe around the wretched feeling settling into his lungs.

“I… _fuck_, Mom, I… I-”

He catches a glimpse of Jo watching him, cowered against Ellen’s side, and Ash standing protectively in front of the two of them, Kate, and Adam. Jo extends a hand, but Dean has turned tail and started to run already.

He trips his way across the fields, away from the flames, away from his mistakes, away from his family. He’s coated in mud up to his knees and half-soaked from splashing across the creek by the time he reaches the Batcave and slams the door open. Castiel meets him at the top of the stairs, wings splayed and feathers ruffled anxiously.

“Dean? What happened? You were not here last night, and I- I saw smoke, and- Dean…?”

“I… I messed up, Cas. I messed up really bad, I… _shit_, Cas, what do I do?”

Castiel frowns and steps aside to allow Dean the rest of the way into the second floor. He begins pacing immediately, unable to keep himself in one place. Castiel watches with a frown.

“Dean, are you… alright?”

“No. No, Cas, I- _fuck_!” he shouts, and whirls around to face the angel with a desperate expression. “My grandpa died and I punched my dad and my mom told me to stop and I couldn’t and I- she hit me, Cas. Mom hasn’t hit anyone in her entire life, sh-she doesn’t believe in violence, and I… god, I’m such a piece of shit!”

Castiel attempts to reach for Dean, but he spins on his heel and resumes pacing, ranting all the while. Finally, Castiel manages to get a wing around him and draw him in close, and wraps him in a tight hug. Dean feels the familiar electricity as Castiel sends a pulse of Grace between them, and the angel’s eyes flash with a soft blue light. Suddenly, he feels heavy, like his legs can’t support his weight anymore. He slumps against the angel and lets out a confused whimper. Castiel only holds him closer as he lowers Dean into the blanket nest and wraps his wings tighter around the famer.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Sleep, Dean. I will be here when you wake.”

The world is dark, and the last thing Dean can make sense of is feathers tickling his skin, a hand against his hair, and the distant feeling of a kiss against his forehead.

Dean wakes to sunlight streaming through one of the Batcave’s windows. The early morning air is cool against his face, but he isn’t cold. It takes him a second to register that he’s so warm because Castiel is curled around him. The angel stirs with a sleepy murmur, feathers puffing up along the ridges of his wings.

“Hello, Dean,” he mumbles, and Dean frowns at the sound of his voice.

“Did you sleep at all, Feathers?”

“Of course not. I was… I needed to watch over you.”

Dean’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He barely resists the urge to turn his face into the angel’s chest. Castiel cards a hand through his hair, and Dean’s breath stutters.

“Cas…”

“It was my choice, Dean. You needed time to rest undisturbed. Do you… would you like me to ask what happened yesterday, or would you prefer that I not acknowledge it?”

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. His voice is thick when he speaks; clearing his throat doesn’t help. “I just… I dunno, man.”

“There is no need to talk if you would not like to. I do not wish to cause more distress.”

Dean chuckles wryly. “More distress,” he mutters. “I don’t think you could, Feathers. I just… god, I don’t know. I ruined Pa’s funeral, and Mom was grieving and I made it worse, I… _god_, I acted like an ass. I don’t… I tried to start a fight with my dad at a damn _funeral_. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Grief can alter judgement. My understanding is that you have a complicated relationship with your father; I cannot imagine that losing your grandfather would help that relationship. You cannot blame yourself for acting out.”

“You don’t get it, Cas, I- … Dad was always the physical one. I… I tried to fight him and he didn’t do anything, so I punched him, a-and I- … I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he admits, voice small.

“Allow yourself to grieve,” Castiel says. “Apologize, when you are able.”

“She told me she was proud of me for not fighting with him, and then I turn right around and try to break his face the same day her dad dies? Cas, she’s gonna hate me. I- I can’t…”

“Your mother does not hate you. I promise, Dean, there is nothing you could do to make your mother hate you. You are both grieving- let it happen. Your emotions will only control you if you try to suppress them.”

Dean sniffs. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and sniffs again, then bites down hard on his tongue. He swallows against the lump in his throat and finally shakes his head in defeat. “I miss him. I don’t- … he’s my Pa, Cas, I don’t… I don’t know what to do without him, and I… I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing right now.”

Electricity tingles along Castiel’s fingertips as he continues threading his fingers through Dean’s hair. For a moment, Dean thinks that the Grace is meant to put him to sleep again, but nothing happens; it almost seems as if Castiel simply meant to offer the comfort of his presence. He presses his lips together, trying to control himself, and finally allows himself to break down, hidden from the world by a wall of massive black feathers.

When he wakes again, it’s because Castiel is scrambling frantically to his feet. Dean groans and watches him with a confused frown. He doesn’t get the chance to ask what’s happening before the hatch slams open and Jo storms in. Castiel doesn’t relax at her appearance, but presses himself further into the shadowed corner.

“Dean, get up. _Now_,” Jo snaps.

“What-?”

“Get the fuck _up_, Dean, or Sam is going to find out you’re harboring a fugitive angel.”

She reaches down to tug him to his feet, but there’s no need; he’s more awake now than he ever has been before. He casts a worried glance at Castiel, who offers a tense smile, and allows Jo to drag him down the stairs. They reach the door of the Batcave just as Sam emerges from the trees lining the path back to the stream. He looks nearly as rough as Dean feels, eyes red and puffy like he’s been crying.

Jo raises her eyebrows and gestures vaguely at Dean. “See, Sam? I told you I knew where he was. I didn’t need help finding him.”

Sam ignores her in favor of leveling Dean with an unimpressed glare. “Mom wanted me to find you. Dad and Kate left; I hope you’re happy.”

Dean looks at the ground. He scuffs his foot through the dead leaves, crunchy with fresh frost. He feels a little ill at the prospect of facing the consequences of his actions. He sighs heavily.

“Sam, I-”

“Don’t. Okay? Just… don’t. I’m only here for Mom.”

Dean nods sheepishly. He doesn’t miss the pitying look Jo shoots him before she threads their fingers together and pulls him along as she starts up the path. Sam walks silently ahead of them the entire way back to the house. Dean pauses halfway up the porch stairs. Jo allows the screen door to slam behind Sam before she turns to look at Dean again.

“Hey,” she says softly, drawing his attention away from the door. She squeezes his hand, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s shaking. “It’ll be okay. I’m right here, and Castiel is, too. Or, well, he’s not _here_ here, but- … you know what I mean. You aren’t alone, Dean.”

Dean draws a deep breath and nods once. After another minute, he sighs. “C’mon. No use putting it off any longer, right?”

The scene in the living room isn’t at all like what he’s expecting. Mary rises from the couch as Jo closes the door behind them; the sleeves of her cardigan are stretched over her hands as they press against her mouth. Her bright blue eyes fill with tears and she takes a cautious step towards Dean. He stops a few feet away, unsure what to do. Mary whimpers.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I can’t- I’m _so sorry_,” she breathes, and it feels like Dean has been punched in the gut.

“Mom-”

“I never should have done what I did, and you- you didn’t come back last night, and I- I was so _worried_, and- … I can’t lose you, too, Dean, I can’t ever lose you.”

“_Mom_,” Dean whispers, tears dripping from his eyes without ever touching his cheeks. He closes the distance between them and pulls Mary into a fierce hug. “I’m not going anywhere, Mom. I’m never going to leave you. I’m here, I promise, I’ll always be here. A-and I won’t… I won’t be an ass anymore, I- _god_, Mom, don’t apologize to me. I… I don’t deserve that. I shouldn’t have done what I did, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mom, I-”

Mary laughs wetly and sniffles, pulling back just far enough to reach up and hold his face in her hands. She stretches up as he instinctively leans down, and she presses their foreheads together.

“Grief does funny things,” she says. “And we’ll have a talk about the way you treated your father later, but right now I just want to hold my boys. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mary reaches out a hand without looking, and Dean lifts his arm to allow Sam into the embrace. Mary squeezes them tightly, and after a moment, Sam’s arm wraps around Dean as well. Mary presses a kiss to each of their cheeks and smooths their hair down. Her eyes are earnest as she levels them with an intense gaze.

“I love you,” she says, with a razor edge to her voice. “We’re all stubborn asses, but we can’t let that tear us apart, okay? I love you, and you don’t get to do anything about it. We’ll get through this. And you boys have to talk to me. You can’t shut me out just because you don’t want to feel things. It hurts. I miss Pa. I’ll always miss him. But you’re both here and I love you both and you are _not_ allowed to fight right now. Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” Sam mumbles.

He doesn’t say anything more, but Dean feels Sam’s fingers clench against his shirt. Dean draws a deep breath to steady himself, and fights the urge to shutter himself away.

“I’m sorry, Sammy. I’m really sorry.”

“… I get it.”

Mary forces a smile, though her eyes are still red. “My boys,” she murmurs.

They both pull her back in for a tight hug, and speak nearly in unison.

“Love you, Mom.”


	13. Chapter 12

Dean had never realized how much Samuel’s grumpy demeanor actually brightened up the household. In the weeks following his grandfather’s death, everything feels off-kilter, slightly empty, just a bit wrong. Samuel was never a talkative man, but the house seems too quiet without him. Mary tries hard to keep up with all the work she does around the house and barnyard, and she makes sure to smile at least once a day, but Dean knows that the loss of her father is eating away at her. Ellen picks up the slack when Mary loses herself to the grief and stands on the front porch for hours, wrapped in her shawl and staring with empty blue eyes towards the back fields. Seeing her like this hurts more than knowing Samuel is gone.

True to their word, Dean and Sam try to keep their squabbles to a minimum; by arguing over mundane things, they manage to redirect any frustration with each other and avoid mentioning John. A part of Dean wants to ask what Sam still sees in their father, but he tells himself that it isn’t worth it; any chance they had of understanding each other was dashed at the funeral. Dean figures the best way to keep Mary happy is to avoid that subject entirely. So whenever the conversation with Sam begins to shift away from a light-hearted argument, he leaves the room. Jo usually comes to find him a few minutes later and stands silently beside him until the frustration dissipates.

During the muddy transition from fall to winter, the radio somberly announces which cities have been destroyed. Most are far enough that they aren’t a concern, but after Wichita and Salina both fall in the span of three days, the war seems to loom ever closer. There comes a morning on which Dean returns from the Batcave with the sensation of Castiel’s Grace still buzzing on his skin only to find Jo hunched beside the coffee table listening to a report on the destruction of Topeka, and a part of him wonders just how much longer he’ll be able to hide Castiel.

December is a haze as everyone learns to continue living. Christmas comes and goes with little fanfare; there is no tree or special meal or midnight mass in Lawrence. Instead, Ash leads the family in a short devotion by candlelight, and they sing carols together before bed. Dean plays Samuel’s old guitar and fails to convince himself that it doesn’t seem strange; strumming an acoustic melody while Mary sang ‘O Holy Night’ was the only holiday activity that Samuel ever volunteered for. Mary’s voice trembles while she sings, and Dean watches as Sam slips an arm around her shoulders. Tears streak down her face, and Dean fumbles the chords, and Sam’s harmony is off, and it’s the first time they’ve had to do this without Samuel, but they manage. When they finish, Ellen bustles each of them into a quick hug, and Ash wolf-whistles, and Jo nudges Dean’s knee with her foot from the other end of the couch. And despite how wrong it seems to be celebrating Christmas without Samuel, it feels like the turning of a new page, the start of a long healing process.

Castiel’s molt begins in January, just a few days after the start of the new year. He’s ecstatic as his feathers grow back in. His excitement is infectious, but Dean is unable to ignore the lingering sense of unease that nags at the back of his mind. He wants to be happy for his friend, and he wants to be supportive, and he wants to encourage Castiel to live his own life; despite this, there is an ever-growing side of him that refuses to acknowledge that every day is one step closer to the moment that Castiel leaves him.

The massive black feathers replace themselves in a matter of days. Castiel is eager to build up is strength and take to the sky again, so he doesn’t wait long after his flight feathers have grown in to try flying again; his overconfidence ends with Dean in tears from laughing at the sight of the angel plunging face-first into a pile of snow from the roof of the Batcave. Castiel shoots him a surly look and lobs a fistful of snow at Dean’s face. Dean yelps when it connects.

“Son of a bitch!”

“Stop laughing,” Castiel grumbles, but there is amusement in the gravel of his voice.

Not quite three weeks later, Dean finds himself standing atop the old silo once again. This time, he is alone. He scans the clouds, squinting through the dark, but can’t see any movement in the night sky. After a few minutes of this, he sits down and draws his knees to his chest, humming absently while he waits. The night is still, blanketed with a fresh coat of snow. The sound of animals rustling in the barn is distant and muffled. Dean’s breath forms a cloud in the air as he lets it out in a sigh.

The silence is broken by the rustling of massive wings as Castiel swoops down from the clouds and lands before dean with a soft _thump_. There is something otherworldly in the way he moves, now, and Dean has a hard time keeping himself from staring. Castiel extends a hand, wings raised behind him, and flashes a brilliant smile.

“Fly with me,” he says, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat.

“What?” he croaks.

Castiel shuffles closer, careful not to slip on the icy metal roof. “Fly with me. I want to show you something.”

Dean shakes his head fervently. “No. Nope. No way. I’ll stay where I am, thank you very much.”

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

“Fly with me. I cannot give you the stars, but I can bring them closer.”

Dean narrows his eyes. Castiel squints back playfully. Dean groans and reaches for Castiel’s hand, allowing the angel to pull him to his feet.

“Swear to _god_, Feathers, if you drop me-”

“I would never,” Castiel murmurs, pulling Dean close against his chest. “Hold on!”

Dean isn’t ashamed to admit that he shrieks when Castiel steps backwards and allows them to plummet off the side of the silo. He’s still yelling when he feels their momentum change as Castiel’s wings snap out to catch their fall. After he finally stops shouting, he realizes that he’s curled halfway around the angel and his hands are clenched in a white-knuckled grip on the back of Castiel’s shirt. The night air rushes past, faster and colder with each downbeat of the angel’s wings. Castiel’s arms are tight around Dean, but it’s still a long moment before he dares to open his eyes.

They are above the clouds, and the stars are reflected in Castiel’s eyes when he looks fondly down at Dean. A slow smile spreads across his lips.

“Damn, Cas. You win. This is amazing.”

Castiel laughs, and the sound spreads like wildfire in Dean’s chest. His heart skips a beat.

“When will you learn to trust me, Dean Winchester?”

Dean can’t find the words to respond right away, but he already knows the answer; he’s trusted Castiel since the moment the angel asked for help, surrounded by flames in the center of the wheat field.

When they touch back down on the roof of the silo, Dean doesn’t pull away from Castiel immediately. They stand there, hidden within Castiel’s wings, breath mingling in the space between them. Dean’s arms are still draped around Castiel’s neck. The angel’s eyes roam Dean’s face as if searching for the answer to an unspoken question. Dean feels Castiel’s fingertips brush against his cheekbone, barely a touch at all, and his skin sings at the contact in a way that has nothing to do with Grace.

He opens his mouth, unsure of what he’s going to say, and is cut off before he can begin by a slight tremor beneath their feet. He frowns and breaks away from Castiel so he can scan their surroundings, but he sees nothing. Suddenly, Castiel cries out and falls to his knees, holding his head in his hands. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat.

“Cas?! What’s happening?”

The earth trembles again, and the silo quivers. There comes the sound of a distant boom just as Castiel looks up at Dean with terror in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but only manages to cry out again as something unseen forces him to curl in on himself. Dean reaches out a shaking hand, unsure what to do or how to help, and that’s when he sees it; fire, on the horizon, barely visible over the trees. It flashes orange and yellow, then unnaturally pale blue, and Dean registers what’s going on just before Castiel gasps for air and latches a hand around his wrist.

“Lawrence,” he growls through gritted teeth. His eyes are desperate. “The angels- they are in Lawrence, they… they are calling for me.”

For a moment, time seems to stop. Dean looks wildly between the burning horizon and Castiel’s pained face. When he moves, it’s as if he’s on autopilot, relying entirely on instinct. He pulls the angel to his feet and pushes him towards the edge of the silo.

“Go! Find a place to hide, Feathers, I’ll come for you when I can, just don’t- don’t let them take you, okay?”

In the half second that their eyes meet, Dean feels Castiel’s hesitation like it is his own, and he longs to run with the angel, away from the fighting, away from the farm, away from the apocalypse, and just exist. Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand as if he can pour all of his unspoken words into that brief touch. Then he releases him and leaps from the roof, wings snapping out to catch him and pull him away with the wind. It’s beautiful, and it’s terrifying.

Dean nearly falls as he scrambles down the ladder, but he doesn’t have time to think about the danger. His heart is hammering in his throat and he can hardly breathe as he sprints through the pasture, across the barnyard, up the porch steps. He’s yelling before the screen door slams behind him, and he can hear the confused clamor of everyone waking up as he grabs the old shotgun from the laundry room off the kitchen.

Sam and Ash are the first to appear down the stairs, but Mary enters the kitchen ahead of them. She’s got her old shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her hair is falling from its bun, and the sleep has hardly cleared from her eyes. She rushes to Dean’s side while he pulls shotgun shells from the cabinet above the stove.

“Dean? What’s going on, are you alright?”

“It’s Lawrence,” Dean says, already brushing past her back into the living room.

Jo stands beside the couch, far more alert than anyone else. She meets his eyes with a silent question; when he nods, she blanches.

“Angels,” she says, hardly more than a whisper.

The room goes still aside from the sound of Dean loading the shotgun. Ellen’s expression darkens.

“Angels? What do you mean, angels?”

“They’re attacking Lawrence.”

“Joanna Beth, that’s not-”

“She’s not lying,” Dean interrupts, fixing Ellen with a steely look before he whirls to face Sam and presses the gun into his hands. “Hold down the fort, Sammy.”

“What-?”

“Just do it, Sam. _Please_. I- … I’ll look for Dad, alright? I just- I have to do this, I have to go.”

“I’m coming, too,” Jo announces, brushing past the rest of the family in a hurry to get to the door and pull on a pair of boots and her coat.

Ash catches her arm as she passes. “Jo, _no_. You can’t-”

“Don’t try to stop me, Ash. I can’t just let Dean ride out alone. You _know_ how dangerous these battles are, you’ve _been_ in them.” Jo casts a guilty look over at Ellen, but her voice is hard when she turns back to Ash. “Let go of me.”

Mary starts to make a move forward; Sam grabs her hand to hold her back. He looks torn when he meets Dean’s gaze, but Dean nods.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I- I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I have to see if I can help.”

Mary stares at him for a long moment, and Dean wonders how much betraying her trust will hurt when she asks him to stay. Instead of saying anything, she pulls away from Sam and wraps her arms around Dean’s neck in a crushing hug. She hides her face against his shoulder, lets out a long, shuddering breath, and nods.

“You’re coming back, you hear me? In one piece. And so is Jo. So help me God, the two of you are coming back to us whole and healthy.” Mary pulls back to look Dean in the eye. She holds his face roughly between her hands. “I am _not_ losing you two.”

Dean nods, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his lungs as he realizes that Mary is trusting him not to stay, but to go- and to live. He tugs her back against his chest and buries his face in her hair. “I love you, Mom,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, and I won’t. I won’t.”

When Mary backs away this time, it is to wrap an arm around Sam’s shoulders. For the first time in a long time, it seems like Sam is worried about his brother. Dean flashes a cheeky grin, hoping it will mask his anxiety.

“You’re the man of the house, Sammy. Don’t fuck up.”

Sam groans and rolls his eyes, but his grip on the old shotgun is white-knuckled. He doesn’t say anything until Dean and Jo are both nearly out the door, and then he hurries a few steps forward.

“Dean!”

“Yeah, Sam?”

“I… be careful.”

“… I will.”

Though Sam seems like he wants to say something more, he doesn’t. Suddenly, Ash pushes past, tugging on a coat as he does. Jo frowns, opening her mouth to protest, and he silences her with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t, Jo. We both know I can’t sit here while the two of you charge headlong into a fight.”

Jo snorts and punches him in the shoulder. When the three of them step off the porch, Dean tries not to think about Mary and Ellen standing on the other side of the door, watching their children disappear into the night, unsure if they’ll return.

There’s no time to bother saddling the horses; the earth trembles beneath their feet each time the horizon lights up. Moments later, the thunderous crashes reach their ears. Dean throws Paul’s reins to Ash as Jo vaults onto Zelda’s back; they’re out the barn door before Dean can climb onto Rosie, but he is quick to catch up as he urges her into a run.

The ride to Lawrence passes in a blur of biting wind and hoofbeats in the snow. Dean tells himself that he isn’t afraid, but he can feel the terror growing with every second that ticks away into eternity. They reach Bobby’s salvage yard first, and Dean practically throws himself off the horse in his hurry to get into the house. He’s screaming for Bobby, but no one is answering; Rumsfeld is howling wildly from where he’s been locked in the kitchen. The moment Dean opens the door, the rottweiler runs past and darts away down the street. Dean swears under his breath and continues searching the house until he hears Jo shout from outside, followed by a gruff voice saying “What the _hell_?”.

“Bobby!”

“Dean?!”

Dean nearly slips on the icy porch in his hurry to get back to the front yard. Bobby is fending off an overjoyed Rumsfeld with one arm and holding a little girl with the other. Kate is close behind him, carrying Adam, as well as two women Dean doesn’t recognize, both wearing tattered sheriff’s uniforms. One is clutching another little girl in her arms despite needing to be supported by the other woman. Dean scans the group quickly, and though he’s relieved to see Bobby, Kate, and Adam, his pulse doesn’t slow.

“Bobby, wh- where’s my dad?”

Kate makes a small noise and covers her mouth with a shaking hand. Bobby shakes his head.

“I… I don’t know. He went back.”

Dean feels like he’s been punched in the gut. _He went back_. They’re the same words Ellen had spoke when describing her husband’s death. This is not lost on Jo; her face is white as a sheet when she looks at Dean. She draws a shuddering breath.

“Dean, wait-”

“Take everyone back to the farm, take the horses, just… _go_.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean, and you _can’t_, you-”

Dean steps away, guilt and panic swirling through his entire being. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “He’s my dad. I hate his sorry face, but I can’t just let him die. I- I have to.”

Jo’s expression twists. “Dean, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

“See you on the other side, Jo.”

He hears Kate and Bobby calling after him, but neither hurt as much as the sound of Jo’s anguished scream as she watches him sprint towards the source of the destruction.

Dean navigates the city by memory- years of walking from Bobby’s salvage yard to John’s apartment complex is the only reason he knows where he is despite the ruination around him. Corpses line the streets. Some bear evidence of angels- blood trickling from their ears and eyes burnt out of their sockets. A few are unscathed aside from deep punctures in their chests and the faint smell of sulfur leaking from their mouths.

Dean is less than a block from the complex when he hears the telltale buffeting of wind through massive feathers. He tucks himself out of sight just before the painful ringing of angelic voices begins; it’s nothing like when Castiel speaks Enochian, hardly above a whisper so as not to cause Dean any undue pain. The sound stabs against Dean’s eardrums even after he hunches in on himself, covering his ears. It seems like the angels are shouting to each other; when the ringing stops, the screams begin.

Waiting for a chance to keep moving is like torture. Dean is trapped in his hiding place for an agonizing amount of time, heart hammering behind his ribs as he listens to the battle just around the corner. He hardly has the presence of mind to close his eyes when he hears one of the angels shriek; even behind his eyelids, the flash of Grace is blinding. Half a second later, an explosion knocks Dean to his knees. He hears buildings crumbling, and the wall he’s pressed against rumbles ominously. He waits for silence, and then runs.

John’s complex is damaged, but still standing. Dean throws caution to the wind as he charges inside the shattered lobby doors and starts screaming John’s name. There’s no answer by the time Dean reaches the apartment, and his breath catches when he sees that the door is off its hinges, knocked askew by a chunk of ceiling that has caved in.

“Dad?” he croaks, feeling like a lost child in the moment before he manages to get ahold of his emotions again. “Dad! You stupid motherfucker, where _are _you?! John!”

The entire building heaves beneath Dean’s feet. He barely manages to keep himself from falling and has to dive to the side to avoid a collapsing wall only seconds later. The apartment is so full of debris that Dean gives up on walking and begins crawling through the maze of destroyed furniture and fallen support beams. He’s just reached what he thinks might have been the start of the hallway when he hears John’s voice to his right, calling weakly for help. He swears under his breath and scrambles towards the sound.

“Dad?!”

“Dean?”

“I’m here, Dad, hang on! Just a second, I think I can get to you, just… just hold on, okay?”

A hole has been punched through the outer wall, and the soft light of early morning filters through the haze of smoke outside to illuminate where John lies trapped beneath a pile of rubble. Tears sting in Dean’s eyes; he isn’t sure if they’re from the smoke or his relief, but he doesn’t want to know. He clambers over a ceiling beam and lands beside John, and it feels like a brick has settled in his gut. There’s no way he’ll be able to move this on his own, and one of John’s arms is clearly broken.

John pushes ineffectually against the rubble for a moment, then groans and lays still, panting. “_Shit_,” he mumbles. “Damn it, Dean, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, neither should you.”

John locks eyes with Dean and frowns. “Go, Dean. You have to get out of here. I can’t move, I-”

“Don’t you dare,” Dean interrupts. “You are _not_ going to die here, okay?”

“The building is collapsing. There’s no time to move this shit. Just… tell your brothers-”

“I’m not telling anyone jack! If you say any more self-sacrificing _bullshit_, I swear to god, I-”

Dean cuts himself off with a huff as he shoves a large chunk of drywall off John’s legs. The support beams and bricks remain in place when he tries to move them, and he yells in frustration. John reaches over with his good hand and grabs Dean’s arm, shaking him once to get his attention.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry for everything I did when you were a kid. You had to grow up so fast because of me, and I- you used to sneak out of your room, you know? I’d get home from a bender and your mom would be so pissed off, and- shit, I deserved it, but… you’d wait until she was in bed, and you’d sneak out to the living room and you’d lay down on the couch with me and you- … you’d tell me ‘it’s okay, Dad’, and… I’m sorry you ever had to do that. I should have been the one saying those words, not you.” John’s eyes are glassy. His chest is hardly moving with his shallow breaths. “Get out of town. You have to let me go.”

Dean breathes sharply through his nose, the acrid stench of sulfur and smoke burning his nostrils. His throat is tight, and tears drip from his eyes. John’s grip is tight on his arm, until it isn’t. Dean’s breath stutters, but John flashes a weak smile.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean.”

His hand drops from Dean’s arm as his eyes slide closed. Dean swallows hard and forces himself to bite back a terrified sob. He shakes his head roughly.

“No. No. You don’t get to die. I didn’t come all this way to save your sorry ass for you to just give up! You don’t get to leave us all behind, you stupid, selfish asshole. You are _not_ allowed to leave Sam and Adam without a dad, you fucking _jackass_!”

He braces himself against the rubble trapping John’s unconscious form, then shoves with his entire body. He slams himself against the bricks until he can feel the bruises blossoming under his skin, and then he screams until his throat is hoarse. John doesn’t stir. There’s blood matted in the hair at his temple that’s beginning to dry. Dean bites hard on the inside of his cheek. He can feel himself shaking, and his shoulders shudder as he fights against a panic attack. He slumps beside John, exhausted and helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admits, voice small and quiet.

Feathers ruffle nearby, and a shadow looms from the hole in the wall. Dean looks up to see an angel with golden wings, and he freezes, rooted in place by sheer terror. Then the angel speaks, and its ringing voice is softer than the shouts from earlier, and it steps forward slowly with a curious expression on its face. When it lowers its wings, Dean has a clearer view of its face, and suddenly he recognizes it as one of the two that had rescued Castiel, and he’s not sure that it will listen to him, but he knows he has to try.

“Help,” he whispers, desperate. “Please, help us.”

A far-away crash makes the angel glance back over its shoulder, then back to Dean with wide golden eyes. It says something in Enochian, but doesn’t move. It’s been months since the vision Castiel had shared, but with every passing moment Dean is more confident that this angel is Castiel’s rescuer.

“Gabriel?”

The angel’s wings puff up. Startled, it opens its mouth and emits more ringing. Dean shakes his head.

“I- I don’t understand, I can’t… you saved Castiel, didn’t you? Please, Gabriel, I need your help.”

The angel looks between John and Dean, then over its shoulder again. It seems to hesitate, but then it drops the silver blade it’s been holding and shuffles closer. Dean scrambles out of the way as it approaches. In one smooth, swift movement, it lifts the rubble away from John and tosses it to the side, then hurries back to the hole in the wall and snatches the blade back. For a moment, Dean thinks it will leave without saying anything more, but then it locks eyes with him.

“Castiel… he is safe?”

Dean nods numbly, still trying to process what’s just happened. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registers that this angel speaks with less of an accent than Castiel. The angel grins fiercely.

“Good.”


	14. Chapter 13

John regains consciousness on the outskirts of Lawrence, and Dean nearly collapses with relief. He hasn’t stopped to check John’s pulse since he dragged him out of the apartment, and every step he’s taken away from the center of the city has been a step filled with unease; he wasn’t entirely sure his father would make it out alive.

John has to lean on Dean to stay on his feet, but they slowly manage to make their way to Bobby’s salvage yard. A plume of black smoke rises above the trees, and Dean nearly loses John in his hurry to reach the property. He leaves John at the front gate and rushes down the drive, shouting for Bobby and hearing nothing in return. He makes it around the corner of the detached garage and skids to a halt, fear spreading like ice in his veins.

The house is ablaze. The covered porch is half caved-in, and a body rests amidst the rubble. Dean’s heart stops in his chest before he sees the scorched wing marks on the ground beneath the corpse. All the same, he hurries closer, lungs burning as he breathes in the thick smoke. He can feel his throat shredding as he screams for Bobby again, but he doesn’t have time to stop. It isn’t until he sees hoofprints in the mud, leading away from the house and into the woods to the east, that he realizes he’s been searching for people who aren’t here; at some point, Jo and Ash must have given in and led them back to the safety of the farm. Dean stumbles his way back to John, praying that they’ll make it back before it’s too late.

The sun is high overheard by the time they reach the farm and stumble up the long drive. Dean is still supporting most of John’s weight; his father is nearly unconscious once again, and it’s the fear of losing him that keeps Dean moving. His feet are dragging and he’s never felt more exhausted in his life, but he can’t afford to stop, not yet. He tries to call out but his voice sticks in his throat, raw from breathing smoke and searching for John.

The screen door slams open before they’ve reached the front yard; Jo nearly falls in her hurry to get down the porch steps. Her blonde hair streams behind her as she sprints across the yard and slams into Dean. Her arms, tight around his chest, are the only thing that keeps him from falling over. The rest of the family pours out of the house behind her, all shouting and clamoring to get over to Dean and John.

Getting into the house is a blur of activity; John is lifted away from Dean by Bobby and Ash, who work in tandem to carry him inside. Dean nearly collapses and has to be supported by Mary and Jo to make it up the steps. They sit him down in Samuel’s old armchair, and Jo takes up a protective sort of post behind him. Kate gives Dean a crushing hug before practically gluing herself to John’s side. Mary sits beside Dean, holding one of his hands in both of her own. Ellen tends to John’s wounds, barking orders at whoever will listen, then moves on to check Dean for injuries. He waves her away half-heartedly.

“I’m okay, Ellen, I promise. I’m just… just tired.”

Ellen frowns, but pats his knee and turns back to John. Dean lets his head flop back against the armchair and groans. Mary leans down to press a kiss against the top of his head and squeezes his hand.

“I am so incredibly proud of you, honey,” she whispers.

Dean presses his lips in a flat line and fights back the tears that suddenly burn in his eyes; he doesn’t want to cry again, especially not in front of his family. He’s shed enough desperate tears today.

“I, um- … can I go, Mom? I- I’m tired.”

“Oh! Oh, of course you can, baby, let me hel-”

“N-no, that’s okay. I… I’m okay, Ma. I promise. I just… I wanna check on the farm, first.”

Confusion sinks into Mary’s expression, but she nods. Before she can say anything else, Jo lays a hand on her shoulder with a gentle smile.

“I’ll take him, Mary. And if he passes out in the barn, I’ll make sure he doesn’t smother himself in the hay.”

Mary laughs softly. “Thank you, Jo.”

Standing up again is harder than Dean had anticipated, but with a little help from Jo, he manages. She follows close behind as he shuffles towards the door and back outside, then steps up to support him when his knees buckle. He sags against her; it isn’t an ideal arrangement, but she manages to bear his weight all the way to the back of the barn, where he grabs onto the pasture fence. They stand in silence for a few minutes as Jo catches her breath and Dean fights the fog of exhaustion clouding his mind.

“I, uh… I’m glad you came back,” Jo says after letting out a long breath.

Dean glances over at her and raises an eyebrow. “Wow. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“God, if you weren’t half dead, I would _so_ be punching you right now.”

“Yeah, that sounds more accurate.”

Jo cracks a smile, but it fades just as quickly as it came. She sighs.

“Really, though, I- … I was really afraid that you would… _y’know_… and I- I guess I just realized that it would suck not having you around. I mean, I get that it’s only been, like, half a year, but… you’re kind of my brother. You know that, right?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “I know. Little sisters are a pain in the ass.”

Jo shoots him a glare without any real heat behind it. “Shut up.”

“… I know that I lost- _we_ lost Pa because of this whole stupid apocalypse thing, but I guess if it never happened, I never would have met you. Or Cas, for that matter.”

“Yeah. Funny how that worked out, right? I mean, Mary’s always saying that thing about angels, and you’ve got one that looks at you like the sun shines out your ass.”

Dean snorts. “Feathers? Yeah, right. He’s just like that.”

Jo shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back against the fence. “If you say so. All I know is, he clearly loves having you around, and you seem to feel the same way.”

“He’s my best friend, Jo.”

Jo falls silent for a long while. An icy breeze picks up and tugs at her hair. Dean turns his gaze away to the barren tree line across the pastures. Absently, he wonders if Castiel is okay. Finally, Jo clears her throat.

“He’s got his wings back, right?” she asks.

“Yeah, so?”

“I just… I like him, okay? I didn’t think I would, or even could, since he’s an angel, but… he makes you happy and he’s cool, in a weird kind of way. And I get that you two are close, but… what happens when he leaves? I’m not saying he should, or even would, but what if he does? He can fly again, and Lawrence just got attacked, and that’s…. Dean, that’s really close to home. What if the other angels are hunting him, or something?”

Dean frowns, thinking of the golden-haired angel who had helped him rescue John. It had seemed genuinely concerned for Castiel’s safety, if a bit distracted by the battle raging in the center of the city. Though, he supposes, it could have been a ruse. He worries his lip between his teeth, wondering if he’s just given away Castiel’s hiding place, and finally lets his breath out in a sigh.

“I guess it’s a possibility.”

Jo watches him for a long moment with a guilty expression. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- … nevermind. Just… be careful, okay? I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Something about Jo’s tone keeps Dean from trying to joke about what she’s said. He wraps an arm around her shoulder and tugs her closer for a quick hug. She endures it for a few second, then punches him lightly in the arm, eliciting a squawk of protest.

“Hey!”

“What? You don’t look half dead anymore, just tired. I’m totally within my rights to punch you, now.”

“…. I need to have words with your mother.”

Jo snorts and flashes a grin. “You can try.”

Dean shakes his head and rolls his eyes. After a few more seconds, he pushes himself off the fence; he wobbles slightly but manages to stay upright. “Alright, let’s go find an angel.”

They traipse across the pastures arm-in-arm, blaming Dean’s exhaustion for the closeness, but they both know they’re just happy the other is safe. Castiel is not at the Batcave; Dean hadn’t expected him to be, but it’s still concerning when he isn’t in the vicinity either. Dean shouts his name once, then winces at the pain in his throat and falls silent.

Jo takes the lead as they follow the stream north, pausing every few steps to make sure Dean is still able to keep up. They’ve nearly reached the north end of the property before they hear rustling in the trees, and Castiel lands in front of them. Dean’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of the angel. He doesn’t allow time for anyone to say anything, just steps away from Jo and folds Castiel into a crushing embrace. Castiel reciprocates the hug without hesitation, curling his wings around the two of them as well as wrapping his arms around Dean’s chest.

“Hello, Dean,” he murmurs, voice muffled from where he’s tucked his face against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean laughs, more relieved than amused, and pats Castiel’s back once before pulling away to arm’s length. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

Castiel looks dumbstruck for a moment before he smiles warmly. Jo clears her throat behind them, drawing Dean’s attention away.

“Hey, Birdman,” she says, sounding almost as tired as Dean feels. “Look, this is a touching reunion and all, but can we get going back to the Batcave? Dean looks like he’s half a second away from passing out, and I honestly wouldn’t mind a nap either.”

“Of course, Jo.”

Castiel steps away from Dean, but not before brushing his fingers against the back of Dean’s hand with a tingle of Grace passing between them. Almost immediately, Dean feels more energized. He’s still tired, of course, but he feels like he might be able to make it back to the Batcave before he loses himself to the exhaustion.

Jo accompanies the two of them back to the Batcave but excuses herself before coming inside. When Dean frowns at her, she mumbles something about barn chores being forgotten in the morning’s chaos and slips away up the path to the barn, leaving Dean alone with Castiel. They wait until Jo’s retreating form is no longer visible, then enter the Batcave together and tramp up the stairs to the second level.

Dean flops into the nest with a groan, one arm thrown over his eyes. He feels the blankets shift as Castiel settles beside him. After a moment, he lowers his arm and cracks one eye open to study the angel’s face. Castiel reaches over and smooths Dean’s hair back, and he feels another soft pulse of Grace.

“Mmph… Cas, don’t- I don’t wanna sleep yet, man, don’t make me…”

Castiel chuckles softly. “I would not dare force you to rest, that would be simply awful of me.”

Dean smacks at his shoulder half-heartedly. “You’re such a smartass.” He heaves a deep breath and forces himself into a slightly more upright position. “Really, though, I’m glad you’re okay. You _are_ okay, aren’t you?”

“I am fine, Dean.”

“You’re sure? What was that crap up on the silo last night? You said the angels were calling you, what does that mean?”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably and draws his lip between his teeth. Finally, he sighs. “We can communicate across long distances with a sort of… subsonic frequency, I suppose is the best descriptor for it.”

“So…. what, it’s some kind of angel radio? I- I don’t get it, though, why would it hurt you if it’s just a regular angel thing?”

“I… I have not heard Enochian being spoken since I fled from Michael, and there was a great clamor about Lawrence. From what I gather, Michael has been searching for something that he is convinced is nearby.”

Dean frowns. “You don’t think… is he looking for you?”

“I- … I suppose it _is_ a possibility, but… I do not believe so. The angels were not calling to me directly, they were… it was more of a call to action, I suppose, for any who could hear it. Although I did… I thought I heard Gabriel’s voice.”

“Gabriel? When? Before or after the battle?”

Castiel shrugs. His wings rustle as they mimic the action. “During, I suppose. It seemed almost as if he knew I would hear him.”

Dean’s breath sticks in his chest. “Is that good or bad?”

“Gabriel has always been a trusted friend.”

“I… Cas, I think I met him. He helped me save my dad, and then he asked if you were safe.”

Castiel smiles softly, an absent look in his eyes as he threads his fingers through Dean’s hair once again. “Yes… yes, I believe I am.”

The days in the last week of January bleed together as life on the farm adjusts yet again. The women who Bobby rescued from Lawrence introduce themselves as Jody and Donna, along with their daughters Claire and Alex. Adam is ecstatic about having children his own age to play with, and Donna in particular takes readily to farm life. It’s rough finding room for five adults and three children, but they make it work, and despite the eight new people, the biggest change is Rumsfeld.

Bobby’s rottweiler seems to fall in love with the room he has to run, and is difficult to convince to come back inside, even during February’s snowstorms. Sam is ecstatic to have a dog around; the barn cats are far less enthusiastic, though Muffin does take an odd liking to Rumsfeld. Between this and her affinity for Castiel, Dean is starting to wonder if she just has a penchant for things that could kill her if they weren’t so enamored by her.

Dean’s relationship with John is still rocky throughout February and March, but he thinks that this is the closest they have ever been. Mary had forced them in a room together after Dean had told her everything that had happened in Lawrence, and for the first time in years Dean had allowed himself to let down his walls around John. He has more free time now that there are several extra pairs of hands on the farm, and he finds himself actually choosing to spend a few hours with John each week, finally assembling all the model cars that have sat untouched for years.

The downside to having more people on the farm is that it becomes increasingly harder to sneak away and see Castiel, even with Jo’s help. Even so, Dean still manages to spend most of his nights in the Batcave, talking in low tones with the feeling of Castiel’s hands in his hair as he runs his fingers over the angel’s silky feathers. More often than not, Muffin is curled in the small space between them, her head resting on Dean’s thigh while she purrs and kneads her paws against Castiel’s knee.

Castiel is the first to notice that Muffin is pregnant; she’s noticeably wider at the end of March than she had been at the start of the month. He mentions this to Dean, who insists she’s just gotten a bit rounder, and two weeks later there are three kittens mewling from underneath the cot in the Batcave. Castiel lords the fact that he was right over Dean for days, until Dean rolls his eyes and calls him a few choice names in an amused tone.

They argue over what to name the kittens for so long that Jo makes the decision for them: each will get to name one kitten. Neither Dean nor Castiel get the chance to point out that there are three babies before Jo has lovingly dubbed the smallest ‘Alfie’. She refuses to explain the name to either of them. Eventually, Castiel admits that he would like to name his kitten ‘Balthazar’, after the angel who died in the process of saving him. Dean enthusiastically christens the final kitten ‘Birdbrain’, proudly stating that the name has nothing to do with the cat’s personality and everything to do with the fact that it has black fur and blue eyes. Castiel smacks the back of his head with his wing for that comment.

The two and a half months that pass after Lawrence are, against all odds, the most peaceful of Dean’s life. He thinks that these months may be the happiest he’s been in a long while, and he allows himself to relax into the new rhythm of his life. Castiel’s worries about Michael’s search linger in the back of Dean’s mind, but most days the apocalypse seems distant compared to the constant motion of farm life.

There comes a day in mid-April on which it all comes to a screeching halt. Dean is sitting on the roof of the Batcave with Castiel, watching the sun set through the freshly burst leaves on the maples. The kittens, just starting to learn how to tumble around without falling every other step, have eagerly followed them and are enjoying the fresh air. Balthazar and Birdbrain are tussling with each other while Alfie swats at the handful of bluebells Dean had presented to Castiel earlier in the day, after having nearly stepped on the little flowers to avoid falling in the stream. Castiel had laughed and drawn Dean close to his side, and when it had started to rain he had covered them both with his wings. He reaches over now to wiggle his fingers in front of Alfie, and the grey kitten pounces clumsily, and Dean’s heart swells. He cracks a stupid joke, and Castiel threatens to push him off the roof.

Dean snorts and knocks their shoulders together. “You’ve been spending too much time with Jo lately.”

Castiel opens his mouth to respond, likely with some cheeky comment, but suddenly freezes in place. His feathers ruffle and begin to raise along the ridges of his wings; moments later, all three kittens pause their play and start to growl, puffing themselves up defensively. Dean doesn’t have the chance to ask what’s happening before an angel swoops down out of the clouds and lands with a thud behind them.

Castiel jumps to his feet, blue eyes wide. Dean winces when the ringing of Enochian reaches his ears, but isn’t able to cover his ears- the kittens have given up on acting tough and have scrambled to hide themselves in his lap, tiny claws digging through his jeans as they jostle each other.

The golden-winged angel replies to whatever Castiel has said as it steps forward to pull him into a quick, rough hug. They converse quickly, voices ringing in Dean’s ears, until the angel gestures wildly towards the west. It says something more, and Castiel looks at Dean with a conflicted expression. He hesitates, then steps back towards Dean and shakes his head.

“Gabriel, I… I cannot.”

Gabriel glances quickly between the two of them. His expression twists, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft.

“Cassie… You don’t mean that.”

“I- … I do.”

“This is the end we’re talking about, Castiel. _The End_. Capital letters. This is Michael and Lucifer duking it out until there’s nothing left. You can’t possibly-” Gabriel cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair. He sighs heavily. “I understand. Just… if you never see me again, you’ll know why.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump. “Gabriel…”

Finally managing to get the kittens under control, Dean sets them aside and stands. He approaches slowly, taking up a post at Castiel’s side.

“Can someone please explain what the hell is happening right now?”

Castiel’s brow creases. He looks almost guilty when he glances at Dean. “Michael has found it.”

“Found what?”

“The final battleground,” Gabriel says. “There’s less than a day to the end of the world.”


	15. Chapter 14

Dean can’t believe what he’s just heard. He shakes his head, trying to make sense of Gabriel’s words, and after a moment, gives up.

“I’m sorry, the _end of the world_? What, like… like, for real? This whole stupid angel-demon war y’all have got going on, the one that’s killed god only knows how many people, the one that’s destroyed half the planet, the one that’s been going on for _years_… this is the end of that?”

“Yes.”

“How? I mean, _how_?”

Gabriel shrugs helplessly. “Michael and Lucifer will fight on the ‘hallowed ground’ and whoever dies first is the loser, I guess. Look, I don’t want this fight to happen any more than you do- human casualties are the reason Cassie is even here. But do you have any idea how many of us have died for this ridiculous war? Just because God said it would happen? Well, fuck Him. Heaven, hell, I don’t care who wins. I just want it to be over.”

Dean can feel his chest tightening. He looks to Castiel, who avoids his gaze.

“W-what does that…”

“Don’t think about it too much, Dean-O. And Castiel is staying here, so… no worries, right? Just avoid Stull Cemetery if you want any chance of surviving the next twenty-four hours.”

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_, keep your sorry ass in one place, and make sure that place isn’t Stull. I didn’t help you in Lawrence just for you to get yourself killed in Stull.”

Dean frowns. “So that… that was you, then? Why would you…?”

“Please,” Gabriel snorts. “You had the signature of Castiel’s Grace all over you. He’s doused you in it so thoroughly he’s basically turned you into a beacon. How do you think I found you in the first place?”

Gabriel steps to the edge of the roof before anyone can say anything more. He pauses to look back, amber eyes flickering to Dean, then to Castiel just as quickly. For a moment, he almost seems sad.

“I understand, Cassie. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

With a powerful downbeat of his wings, Gabriel lifts himself into the sky and is gone again before Dean can really process what’s just happened. His side goes cold as Castiel suddenly steps away. Dean turns to see him pacing, wringing his hands and worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Dean murmurs, stepping back into Castiel’s space and grabbing him by the shoulders. “It’s fine, Feathers, they won’t- they can’t… shit, man, I’m not gonna let any of those dick angels get close to you, I-”

Castiel shakes his head and tries to take a step back from Dean, guilt flooding across his features. “You… you cannot possibly understand the danger you are in, Dean. The longer I stay here, the worse it will be for you and your family.”

Dean can feel himself go still. “What… what does that mean? Are you- … no. No way. You can’t really be thinking of following him, can you?!”

“_No_, Dean, I- … I already told Gabriel I could not return to this war. Even if I were to help destroy Lucifer, Michael would never treat me as a prodigal brother come home; I am a soldier who disobeyed a direct order, and I… I _killed_ another angel to save humans, and Balthazar died to protect me. Gabriel attacked Michael just so I could flee like a coward. I cannot go back, but I am not sure I can remain here, either. If Michael wins this battle, I would be in just as much danger as I would be if Lucifer wins, and I cannot risk putting you in harm’s way.”

“I don’t give a shit about this stupid war, Cas! You’re not going anywhere! You’re family, damn it, and that means something. _You_ mean something, man, you aren’t just a soldier, or an angel, or whatever. You’re staying here, and that’s final. I- I’ll fight a fuckin’ angel, if I have to. They can’t have you, Cas, you don’t belong with them. You belong right here, damn it.”

Castiel meets Dean’s gaze with such an impossibly tender look in his eyes that Dean thinks his chest will burst. He opens his mouth to say something more, but snaps it shut at the sound of distant shouts. Suddenly, Dean can hear his name being screamed, and fear floods his veins. He looks desperately at Castiel, then runs for the hatch in the roof that will let him down into the Batcave. The kittens scramble after him, all bumbling as they try to be the first to reach their hiding place under the cot.

Dean bursts out the door on the lowest level just as Jo comes running into the clearing, chest heaving and twigs caught in her hair. Her eyes slide from Dean to Castiel, who is still standing on the roof like he’s rooted in place.

“They’re coming,” she gasps, paying no attention to Dean as he comes up beside her. “You have to leave, Castiel, they saw the angel and they-”

The sound of a shotgun racking interrupts Jo. She shrieks and ducks as Dean whirls to find the source of the noise, and his entire being short-circuits when John pulls the trigger. Castiel drops against the roof of the Batcave with a heavy ‘thunk’, and his screech of pain rips through Dean more effectively than any weapon. He’d been so focused on reassuring Castiel about the dangers of the angels that he hadn’t even thought to protect him from the dangers of his own family.

John racks the shotgun again, and Dean doesn’t have time to think. He can hardly hear Jo screaming for Castiel to go as he turns and runs at his father. The blast leaves his ears ringing in a way that has nothing to do with Enochian when he knocks the gun aside and tackles John. There comes the sound of thundering footsteps, massive wings, breaking tree branches, shouting and confusion and fear.

Dean wrestles the gun from John’s hands and throws it to the side, then rolls away from his father and clambers to his feet.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he bellows, not even listening for John’s answer as he turns to look for Castiel; there are feathers stuck in the crack of a freshly broken branch, but the angel is nowhere to be seen.

Mary runs past John to grab at Dean, checking him roughly for injuries. Tears are streaming down her face.

“Oh my god, Dean, you’re okay, you-”

“I’m fine! What the fuck just happened?!”

“There was an angel,” Ellen says, helping John to his feet. “We thought-”

“You just saved that- that _thing_!” John spits the words, his eyes ablaze.

“He’s not a _thing_, Dad, he- _Jesus fucking Christ, _you _shot_ him!”

Silence falls for a moment, just long enough for Dean to realize that practically the whole family has rushed out to gather here; if he weren’t so panicked about Castiel, he might appreciate their concern. Mary looks between Dean and Jo and raises a trembling hand to cover her mouth as she gasps softly.

“You… you knew it was here. Both of you, you knew?”

“Stop saying _it_,” Dean snaps.

Ellen’s brow creases. “Joanna? You…?”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Jo whimpers.

“Oh my god,” Ellen breathes. She steps back, shaking her head. “Those monsters took _everything_ from us, Jo. They nearly killed your father, Dean! A-and the two of you just… you _saved_ it?!”

“Stop it! Stop calling him an ‘it’!”

John shakes his head, obviously confused. “Dean, what the hell are you talking about? That thing was going to attack you, it would have killed you, it-”

“I said _stop_!” Dean shouts, hands shaking at his sides.

He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t- Castiel is injured, and alone, unprotected right after Gabriel warned them about the end of the world. There’s no time to stand here arguing. Every second that passes is another second that Castiel could be in danger. His breath catches in his throat, and suddenly it is all too much; his shoulders shake as he dissolves into tears, hot and angry and ashamed and terrified.

Bobby shoves past the rest of the group to grab Dean by the shoulder and steer him away. Once they are out of sight, he wraps his arms around Dean and pulls him close to his chest. His voice is gruff when he speaks.

“It’s okay, boy. It’ll all be okay. I don’t understand, but I ain’t gonna let something this precious to you get away, alright? Look at me, Dean.” He waits for Dean to meet his gaze, then raises his eyebrows. “You can figure this out. What’s the next step?”

Dean draws in a shuddering breath, trying to compose himself. He nods, somewhat numbly, and lets his breath out slowly. “I… I gotta find him. I can’t- he’s hurt, Bobby, he won’t be able to fly very far, and there’s a fight goin’ down over in Stull, at the old cemetery.”

“Alright,” Bobby says. “That’s a plan. You got your head on your shoulders yet?”

Dean huffs what might have been a laugh if there wasn’t still panic coursing through his veins. He scrubs a hand across his face and nods quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Bobby claps him roughly on the shoulder. “Good. Now, we better get goin’ if you want to make it all the way to Stull before your angel gets himself in trouble.”

Bobby shields Dean from the family as they hurry past. Mary and Jo fall into step beside them, and Mary reaches over to take Dean’s hand fiercely in her own. He looks at her, confused, but she stares straight ahead as they traipse across the fields, a determined look in her eye.

Jo helps the three of them tack the horses, and catches Dean’s wrist before he can swing into Rosie’s saddle.

“Be careful, okay? I know you don’t want to hear this, but… Dean, if it’s you or Castiel… it has to be you.”

Dean swallows hard against the lump forming in his throat. “Jo…”

She flashes an unconvincing smile. “Don’t say it. I know you’d never leave him behind. Go save your angel.”

They ride hard from the farm, but it still takes a couple of hours to get close to Stull; they have to pass through Lawrence on the way, and Dean is so intent on finding Castiel that he hardly hears Mary’s shocked gasp. She hasn’t left the farm in close to a year, and the Lawrence that she knows has been reduced to almost nothing. They slow as they pass through the city, horses picking their careful way through the rubble. At one point, Mary pulls Zelda to a halt. Bobby stops Paul beside her, and Rosie stamps restlessly when Dean is forced to pause as well.

He isn’t sure why they’ve stopped at first, but then he sees the husk of his childhood home, half collapsed and barely recognizable. It’s been close to seven years since he’s stepped foot in that house. He used to dream about moving back and having his family whole again- or maybe for the first time. Now he stares at the old green siding and wills himself to feel something, _anything_ for it, but all his thoughts are occupied by Castiel. After a moment, Mary shakes her head as if to clear it and the trio resume their mad dash to Stull.

It's been years since any of them have been this far west, no matter how close to Lawrence it is, but there’s no need for directions; there is smoke rising in heavy columns past the trees. The town is relatively untouched, but lies eerily empty. There are no bodies in the streets, no people fleeing for their lives, no angels or demons scuffling amongst crumbling buildings. It feels wrong, in a way.

Dean allows Rosie to walk at her own pace through the empty town, distracted as he scans for any signs of life. There isn’t so much as a rustle of new spring leaves in the breeze. If this is truly the end of the world as Gabriel said, he thinks, shouldn’t there be more destruction? Stull almost looks more like a movie set than a real place.

“Something’s not right,” he murmurs.

The ground trembles with the shocks of an explosion from the west, and the horizon flashes with white-blue light. Dean’s heart stops in his chest as he realizes what’s happening; the town is empty because the battle is in the cemetery, and an angel has just died. He digs his heels into Rosie’s flank and takes off at a gallop, ignoring Mary and Bobby’s confused shouts behind him.

Castiel will be at the battle, Dean is sure of it. No matter how afraid he was to face Michael, he always talked of Gabriel with guilt in his voice. Dean knows he feels guilty for Balthazar’s death, and with the threat of Michael and Lucifer’s final confrontation looming over them, he knows Castiel will try to protect Gabriel. It’s a stupid, foolish, reckless idea, but Dean has come to learn the way that Castiel thinks; driven away from his safe haven on the farm and wounded by Dean’s own family, he’ll think he has nothing left to lose, and he’ll wind up right where Michael wants him.

There is another thunderous boom just before Dean reaches the gates of the cemetery. He reins Rosie in and vaults out of the saddle, running recklessly into the fray. All around the graveyard, angels and demons are tearing each other limb from limb. The noise of clashing blades and screeching Enochian voices is nearly unbearable. Dean winces, resisting the urge to cover his ears, and scans the scene for Castiel. His pulse is impossibly fast, quickening with each second that passes.

“Hey, Dean-O!”

Dean hardly has time to react to Gabriel’s chipper voice before the golden-winged angel seizes him under the arms and lifts him into the air. He yelps and clutches tight to Gabriel’s arms, feeling like he’s left his stomach on the ground behind them. Gabriel drops him behind a mausoleum at the far side of the cemetery and pushes him to the ground.

“What the _hell_ are you going here?” he hisses, face inches from Dean’s.

“I was-”

“Don’t answer that! Just stay put, would ya? I’m kind of trying to keep Michael and Lucifer apart so your pathetic little world doesn’t end, I don’t exactly have time to babysit you. And, before you ask, no. Cassie isn’t here.”

Gabriel shouts something in Enochian, and the moment he leaves, another angel takes his place. This one seems younger, no older than Sam, and flashes Dean a somewhat apologetic smile. He crouches in front of Dean and offers his hand tentatively; his feathers are ruffled in the same way as Castiel’s when he is nervous.

“Hello, Dean Winchester. I am Samandriel! Castiel was afraid you may try to find him here. He asked Gabriel and I to-”

Samandriel cuts off with a pained yelp and drops to the ground clutching his ears. As if by instinct, Dean’s gaze travels upward, and he meets the eyes of a tall, dark-haired angel from beyond rows and rows of tombstones. The angel cuts an imposing figure against the wild melee around him, uncannily calm and composed as it tips its head curiously to the side and seems to study Dean. A cruel smirk forms on its lips. Dean cries out in pain as the angel’s voice shrieks against the inside of his skull; its lips never move, and though it speaks Enochian, Dean can hear each word clear as day as it rings and reverberates in his head.

_So you are the human who has been harboring Castiel? His Grace lights up your pathetic veins. Where is he? Nearby, I assume. He does so dearly adore your kind; I cannot imagine he would allow his favorite pet to stride so carelessly onto hallowed ground. Unless… he does not know? _

The angel’s wings rise behind it, and finally Dean is able to place its horribly familiar face.

“Michael,” he grunts, struggling to rise to his knees; Michael’s voice in his head feels like a lobotomy with no anesthetic.

_You know who I am? Impressive, for an ape. What else has Castiel told you? Do you know he is a murderer? A fugitive? _

__“Go to hell,” Dean spits, finally managing to get upright. Beside him, Samandriel has gone white as a sheet; Dean assumes that Michael is keeping him down with the same form of angel radio that he’s using to speak directly into Dean’s mind. He grits his teeth against the dissonance of Michael’s laughter.

_Hell? No. When Lucifer is dead, we shall build a new and glorious Heaven upon this earth. Perhaps I will be merciful and allow Castiel to witness its glory before he is executed._

Michael begins walking forward slowly, and a blade materializes in his hands. He seems to consider the weapon for a moment, then levels Dean with an icy stare.

_I wonder how close he really is. Perhaps the sound of your blood gurgling in your throat will be enough to draw him in._

Michael casually transfers the blade to one hand and clenches the other into a fist; Dean feels something snap behind his ribs. He clutches at his chest as he doubles over, gasping for air that doesn’t reach his lungs. He clenches his jaw and bites back a pained whine, spitting out a mouthful of blood before he forces himself to meet Michael’s eyes. The angel cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow.

_You truly are an impressive ape. I suppose I should not be surprised that Castiel has imprinted on you. Truthfully, small one, I cannot wait to see his agony when he realizes that you have been torn apart and reduced to the disgusting pile of filth you humans truly are. _

Everything happens at once, so quickly that Dean can hardly track it. One moment, he is watching as Michael advances on him, wielding a wickedly sharp silver blade; the next, he hears an enraged howl and a mess of black feathers streaks through his vision as Castiel knocks Michael to the side. The two angels become a tangle of writhing wings as they tussle, and Dean can feel Samandriel pulling him away from the center of the cemetery, and Mary is shouting his name from somewhere behind him, but he can’t take his eyes off of Castiel.

He feels the dynamic of the battle shift in the half second before it happens; his panicked shout gets caught in his throat and he is powerless to do anything but watch as Michael’s blade slides between Castiel’s ribs. Time stands still. Blue eyes meet green through smoke and fire and confusion and Dean’s heart stops in his chest. He sees the next minute as if it is in slow motion; Castiel’s mouth falling open into an agonized ‘o’, his wings beating frantically as he tries to distance himself from the source of the pain, Michael’s white knuckles as he throws his blade to the ground and seizes Castiel by the shoulders and forces him to his knees. The spell is broken when Michael wraps a hand around the base of Castiel’s right wing and _pulls._

Castiel screams.

It’s a horrifying cross between the sharp ring of Enochian and the low gravel of Castiel’s voice; it grates against Dean’s ears and resonates deep in his chest. He’s sure he’ll never hear a more awful sound in all his life- he’ll hear this scream in his nightmares.

Michael throws the severed wing carelessly aside and tears the other away from Castiel’s back in the same methodic movement. Castiel’s fingers scrabble ineffectually against Michael’s forearms as he attempts to keep himself upright, but he crashes to the ground in a heap of blood and ragged feathers the moment Michael releases him. His eyes are wide, deeper than Dean has ever seen, filled to the brim with fear, and Dean can feel that same panic sinking into his skin.

Still holding Castiel’s mangled wing in one hand, Michael lifts his eyes to meet Dean’s gaze with a wicked smile. He starts to say something, voice ringing in Dean’s ears, and is tackled once again; this time by a smaller angel with golden wings. Gabriel rolls away from Michael and pops to his feet, expertly flipping his blade over in his hand. He looks wildly between Castiel and Dean and waves his free hand frantically between them.

“_Go_!” he shouts, and Dean doesn’t need to be told twice.

He tears himself from Samandriel’s grasp and sprints towards Castiel, weaving his way between headstones and corpses, feet slipping on wet grass and fresh mud. He hears voices shouting his name but keeps running; he can’t afford to stop, he won’t get there in time. He can see the Grace gushing from the gouges in Castiel’s back and the hole between his ribs, and this- this is nothing like the battle wounds back in August. This is a flood of white-blue light swirling with crimson blood, saturating the ground and streaming over Castiel’s pale skin.

Dean can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can hardly hear the battle still raging around him as he hurtles through the cemetery. All he knows is that he has to help Castiel, and distantly he realizes that he’s already too late.

The world spins as he loses his balance and crashes to the ground. He hardly registers the familiar feeling of silky black feathers against his skin as he pushes himself to his knees and scrambles to Castiel’s side; the wing lies forgotten beside them, slowly soaking up the mixture of blood and Grace leaching into the dirt. Dean hauls Castiel into his arms and presses down on his ribs, knowing that no amount of pressure could stop the bleeding from the angel’s back.

“_Shit_, Cas, what do I do? What do I do?!”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel whimpers.

Tears are sliding down his cheeks and he can’t stop shaking. His eyes are starting to glass over and he seems to be having trouble focusing on Dean.

“It’s gonna be okay, Cas, you’re gonna be fine, you-” Dean cuts off with a wheeze and chokes back a sob. His fingers clench in the fabric of Castiel’s shirt, and red leaks between his knuckles. “You have to be okay, man, you- you… _Fuck_, just tell me what to do! I- I don’t know, I don’t…”

Castiel coughs. Blood trickles from the corner of the angel’s mouth. Dean moves to wipe it away, but his fingers are coated in blood and Grace, and it only smears worse. He feels like he’s falling apart. Castiel offers a small, sad smile as if it will make Dean feel any better.

“I… I am truly sorry, Dean. I could not- … you should go.”

“What? No! I- I can’t leave you. We’re gonna get you out of here, we-”

“You cannot save everyone, my dear, and I… I am beyond helping. I need you to go, I need you to- to _live_. Gabriel will only be able to hold Michael at bay for so long, and I- I cannot… I fear that this is goodbye.”

“No,” Dean croaks, shaking his head. “No. You can’t leave me.”

Castiel touches his fingertips to Dean’s cheek briefly. There is an eternity of unspoken emotion behind his expression, and he sighs a quaking breath. “Given the choice, I would not leave your side.”

He winces and groans and coughs again, and blood spatters Dean’s face, and the earth is turning red around them, and Dean can feel the universe collapsing around him.

“You can’t go. You can’t leave me,” Dean gasps out, and his hand is bloody and trembling, leaving streaks on Castiel’s skin where he’s holding a palm to his jaw. “You can’t because I- because I _need_ you.”

And the world, always a hazy mess of missed opportunities and aborted hopes and dreams, snaps into focus and bleeds, bleeds, bleeds clarity like the Grace oozing from Castiel’s wounds and the tender ache in Dean’s chest. He understands, now. He understands just what Castiel has been for him, he understands his refusal to leave the farm- to leave Mary- and his uneasiness during trips to Lawrence, he understands his complicated relationship with Sam, who has always been so sure of himself. He understands the distant nagging, itchy feeling he’s always had when forced to discuss his feelings.

Dean has always been afraid of wanting. He needs to be needed, to be depended on, to be the unfettered, unwavering support for his family, but he’s never allowed himself to indulge in the latent desire to rely on anyone else the way that they rely on him. Always afraid to be a burden, he has never allowed himself to ask too much, to need someone the way he needs others to need him.

He _needs_ Castiel.

The angel has been a constant since that night in August, unyielding in the face of the storm, unrepentant in the way he curls his wings around Dean and shields him from the demands of the world. This need has always been there, Dean thinks, from the moment they locked eyes in the wheat. It has grown, and grown, and grown, and spilled from the deep recesses of Dean’s consciousness to fill all the cracks and broken parts, to sew him together and make him whole.

He cannot exist without Castiel by his side.

This realization, this sudden lucidity, is beautiful and terrible all at once. It burns everything within him and grinds the shattered pieces of his heart into dust. He needs Castiel, loves him, and each breath he draws feels like knives as he watches the life fading from Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes.

Dean chokes on a sob and presses their foreheads together, eyes clenched shut and lips quivering. Castiel coughs a laugh beneath him and threads shaking fingers into Dean’s hair. His skin is cold against Dean’s scalp, and Dean feels the keening whine escaping his throat more than he hears it.

“I will be here, Dean. I will _always_ be here, with you, watching over you.” Castiel’s voice is raspy, feeble in a way that makes his words feel like a physical weight on Dean’s shoulders rather than a comfort. “I did this, all of this, for you. But you need… you need to run. _Please_\- I cannot spend my last moments watching you die, I-” he cuts off with a coughing fit, voice ringing when he groans something in Enochian.

His fingers clench in Dean’s hair, and though his grip is weak, he tugs Dean down with a surprising amount of strength and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is wet with literal blood, sweat, and tears, but it is _right_. They fit together perfectly and something more breaks within Dean; this kiss is just confirmation, physical and damning, that he will never love anyone or anything as profoundly as he loves this angel.

They break apart only when the air in Dean’s lungs is burning and Castiel’s freezing fingers are beginning to go limp against the nape of his neck. Castiel sighs a shallow breath across Dean’s lips, and the cosmos in his eyes slowly winks out, and his words are halting, nearly silent, tender and warm as they spill like blood from his lips.

“_Oh, Dean._ How I love you.”

Castiel’s hand falls, hitting Dean’s shoulder on the way to the ground, and mud made from his own blood dirties his fingers, and his eyes are empty and colorless, and the last of his Grace trickles from the deep fissures torn in his back. Dean’s eyes sting as he chokes on smoke and snot and his own breath. He shakes Castiel, harsher than he means to, and bites back a wail.

“Cas. C’mon, man, wake up. _Fuck, _Cas, please. Please! _Castiel_! You fucking _bastard_, wake up, you can’t leave me, you can’t- _wake up_!”

“Dean,” Mary’s voice says, barely audible over the horrible static in Dean’s ears.

He flinches away from the hand she lays on his shoulder, instinctively clutching Castiel’s corpse closer to his chest as he scrambles back. Mary withdraws her hand with wide blue eyes, her brow furrowed. Dean stares at her for a moment, watching the emotions play across her face as she finds her son grieving a creature he should never have loved.

“Dean,” she repeats, softer this time, and Dean can feel himself shaking. “Baby, we need to go. We can’t stay here. I promise we’ll come back for him, but we need to _go_.”

“I can’t leave him,” Dean croaks, barely able to speak around the choking lump in his throat. “I _won’t_ leave him, I-”

“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, _so_ sorry, but we need to leave him behind right now, we need to get out of here, it isn’t safe.” Mary places a hand on Dean’s cheek, brushing a thumb across the stream of hot tears running down his cheeks. “He’s gone, baby. You have to let go.”

“_No_. No, Mom-”

“No _time_, Mary,” Bobby’s voice grunts, and then there are hands pushing the corpse from Dean’s arms and dragging him upright despite his wild thrashing when he realizes what’s happening.

The ground rumbles beneath their feet and Dean breaks free from Bobby’s grip just as an explosion of blue light knocks them all to their knees. Mary barely manages to roll out of the way of a toppling gravestone before it crushes her legs. Dean digs his fingers into the icy mud as he tries to drag himself back towards Castiel.

“God damn it, Dean, get your ass back here!”

Bobby seizes Dean under the armpits and pulls him away again. Mary laces their fingers together and squeezes his hand; the three of them make it hardly three steps further before Samandriel appears beside them with a wild look in his eyes.

“Get down!” he shouts, creamy wings flaring up behind him like a shield as another explosion rocks the cemetery.

Samandriel pushes them all to their feet the instant the explosion ends. His wings block Dean’s view of Castiel’s lifeless corpse and the sound of shrieking demons drowns out his own panicked yelling. Samandriel has just managed to herd the human trio to the cemetery gates when the battle stills around them. Dean twists desperately against the angel’s iron grip on his arm in a last-ditch attempt to get back to Castiel during the momentary calm. Gabriel bursts out of the smoke, beating his wings to push them all out the gates.

“Go, go, go, go, _go, go, go, go-_” he chants, increasingly frantic with each repetition.

“Gabriel-?”

He waves off Samandriel’s unasked question in favor of seizing Bobby and throwing him from the cemetery. He does the same to Mary and turns to Dean, still struggling to free himself from Samandriel. Dean smacks Gabriel’s hands away.

“Don’t fucking touch me! I have to get back to Castiel, I can’t leave him, I-”

Gabriel grabs Dean’s face between his hands and forces the farmer to look him in the eye. His voice is steady but hinging on hysterical when he speaks.

“Cassie is _dead_, Dean-O, and you will be too if you don’t get your ass as far away from this massacre as you can because _Lucifer _is here and he’s _pissed_ and-”

“I can’t just leave him behind, Gabriel, I-”

Gabriel gives Dean a quick, rough shake by the shoulders. “How do you think he would feel if you got yourself killed, huh? He sacrificed himself to save your ass, and you want to charge back in there and face down the _goddamn devil_?!”

Dean is thrown to the side as the world implodes around them, knocking both angels to the ground. Samandriel cries out in Enochian, but Gabriel’s vicious swears are in English as he clambers back to his feet and snatches at Dean’s arm again.

“I’ll bring his body back to you, okay? Just go!”

Dean’s stomach lurches as Gabriel lifts him and heaves him out the cemetery gates. Bobby’s waiting arms take hold the moment his feet touch the wet grass, and Dean finds himself being hauled away before he can register what’s happened. Mary’s desperate words of comfort fade into hollow static in Dean’s ears as he watches Gabriel and Samandriel dive back into the fray as the battle suddenly surges back to life. Heavy black smoke obscures the angels from view, and almost immediately there are three explosions in quick succession, blinding white with the sudden outpouring of Grace.

Bobby relaxes his grip on Dean just in time for the farmer to double over and retch. Distantly he registers the feeling of Mary’s hand rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, and the sensation nearly draws up another wave of nausea.

Dean allows himself to be led towards the horses and numbly climbs onto Rosie’s back. She snorts, flicks her tail, and stamps her hooves, obviously impatient to leave the vicinity of Stull Cemetery. Normally, Dean would try to comfort her, but now he can hardly find it in himself to flick the reins and follow Bobby and Mary back through Stull. Because Gabriel’s right-

Castiel is dead.


	16. Epilogue

The low hum of summer insects and the faint rustling of oak leaves are all that penetrate the dark of the attic for what seems like hours. There is no movement in the air, no breeze despite the two windows flung open to ward off the stagnant heat. August has been brutal this year, dry like the cracked earth and as golden as the brittle wheat. Atop the dresser, the model impala rests beside three large, iridescent black feathers. They are adorned by a single stem of purple aster; the tiny flowers are slightly faded from being pressed flat, but the color is brilliant against the dark feathers.

Castiel lies awake, unbothered by the inescapable warmth. Dean stirs beside him, and the farmer’s arm tightens around Castiel’s chest, drawing him closer. Dean’s head rests on Castiel’s shoulder, breath washing over his collarbone in a contented sigh. He does not wake. Every inch of skin pressed between them is sticky with sweat, and Castiel spares a moment to wonder if it’s uncomfortable for Dean; Castiel himself welcomes the extra body heat.

He supposes that a perpetual chill is a small price to pay for having died- or, well, Fallen. Castiel had thought of himself as Fallen since he had escaped Michael’s wrath last summer, but he’d been able to recover his Grace by giving himself time to heal. There was no Grace to recover, this time. He feels an echo of it, sometimes, but it slips away when he tries to concentrate on it. He remembers the all-encompassing emptiness that crept over him as he lay helpless in Dean’s arms, and how desperately he had prayed that Dean would make it out alive. When he woke, he found himself lying in an unfamiliar room with Dean hunched over his chest.

Later, Mary told Castiel that Gabriel and Samandriel had dragged his body from the cemetery in the aftermath of the battle- corrupted Grace still sizzling around the archangel blade plunged through Lucifer’s heart, Michael still basking in the glory of his victory, demons still scattering to escape the remaining angels. They’d brought him to the burnt-out husk of Bobby’s house and laid him upon the charred remains of the dining room table. And with Dean watching numbly from the solace of Mary’s arms, Gabriel and Samandriel had nearly exhausted their combined Grace trying to bring him back from the brink of death. They’d succeeded, and Dean had kept a vigil beside him until he woke, weak and groggy and irrevocably _human_.

His transition from disgraced angel to human was far from the smoothest. Mary and Bobby were quick to trust Castiel, especially after witnessing Dean’s reaction to his death, and none of the children seemed to care that he was a fallen angel, but the others were more hesitant. John and Ellen still give him odd looks on occasion, and though Jody is just as polite as Donna, she never seems to stay in the same room for very long. There are some days that Castiel wonders if he will ever truly belong to this family.

Castiel was hardly able to move for the entire first month after Stull; it had been a struggle for Dean to help him down the stairs to sit with the family for Sam’s birthday on May second. He’d spent most of the day in Samuel’s armchair, swathed in blankets, with Rumsfeld drooling on his knees. It was only after a shout at the door startled the entire family into action that Castiel found the strength to move on his own. Ash had burst into the hall, leaving the door open behind him to reveal Gabriel and Samandriel waiting on the front porch, disheveled but sporting identical proud expressions. Castiel had shuffled outside and settled on the porch swing with Dean and Jo on either side of him as per Gabriel’s enthusiastic instructions, and the two angels had told them of their final victory; after weeks of rallying the remaining angels, they had formed an army strong enough to capture Michael. Gabriel himself had been the one to slit the archangel’s throat after he refused to abandon his plan to remake the earth in Heaven’s image. Humans could rebuild, now, free from any looming angelic threats, Samandriel had said; Castiel could live out a mortal life without fear of Michael hunting his family.

The way they explained Michael’s death seemed too simple, too easy, but Castiel knew they wouldn’t lie to him- not about this. Not about his safety. Even knowing that Michael was gone, Castiel suffered recurring nightmares for months, always the same; Michael would torture Dean and drop his bloodied corpse to the ground before turning to Castiel with dripping red hands and a wicked smile, musing in Enochian about how fun it would be to rip Castiel’s Grace from his veins once again. He would wake panting, covered in a cold sweat, heart hammering behind his ribs until Dean would roll over and draw Castiel close against his chest. The world went on and humans began to rebuild and the evidence of Michael’s brief reign quickly vanished, but the nightmares remained.

The clouds shift to expose the moon, full and shining with pale white-blue light. A swathe of sky appears as well, speckled with a smattering of stars remarkably similar to the freckles on Dean’s skin. Castiel stares at this new patch of sky, tracing patterns through the stars to match those he finds in Dean’s freckles, until his breath begins to catch in his throat.

He lifts a hand to brush through Dean’s sandy hair, and maybe Dean isn’t quite asleep, because he murmurs something unintelligible against Castiel’s neck, and the hand resting heavy on his ribs slides up to cover his heart.

Castiel swallows hard. He turns his face back to the window and finds moonlight spilling across the room and over the bed. He closes his eyes momentarily, drawing in a deep breath, relishing the steady pressure of Dean against his side. When Castiel opens his eyes again, the moonlight waits. The tears come unbidden, burning tracks down his cheeks. For a moment before his mind catches up to him, he thinks of blood and fire and smoke and _Grace_, and his heart stutters.

Distantly, the scars on his back ache, and he feels his wings like a phantom pain, wrapping a cocoon around himself and Dean.

The sensation of massive feathers washes away with another peaceful sigh from Dean. The strange ache in his scars does not.

Castiel remains where he is a while longer, willing himself to forget, just for now, and sleep. But when the moon is high in the sky, illuminating the attic bedroom and scorching any remaining clouds from the sky, he carefully extracts himself from Dean’s embrace and climbs out of bed. He leans over to press a kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean, in turn, rolls onto his back and continues slumbering. His hair is ruffled and the sheets are imprinted against his arm and a thin line of drool traces down his chin, and Castiel’s heart is so full he fears it may break.

The house is silent save for the old wood creaking beneath Castiel’s bare feet on the stairs and the muffles noises of the family settling in their sleep. Castiel pauses in the living room, where Rumsfeld rests beside Adam snoring lightly on the couch, a tiny blonde replica of Dean two floors above. The little boy’s cheeks are flushed, skin damp with sweat, but he doesn’t wake when Castiel creeps past towards the front door. He eases the screen door closed behind him and is met by the thick night air.

Castiel intends only to step to the edge of the porch so he has a better view of the sky, but his feet carry him into the front yard where the grass is soaked with dew. He hears a small, disgruntled meow from behind him, and glances over his shoulder to see Balthazar mid-stretch on the porch swing. The orange cat pads over to Castiel and weaves between his legs with a broken purr. He follows the fallen angel even as the grass grows thick and they step into the wheat field.

The crater that was carved out a year ago remains, and though it has grown up again with stray wheat and wildflowers, Castiel’s aster remains the hardiest. It bloomed earlier than it should have and has served as a reminder of the Grace that once pulsed through Castiel’s veins.

He kneels beside the aster and cups its petals between his fingers as if they are made of glass. His shoulders tremble, muscles contracting to support wings that aren’t there, and he feels like he should be praying.

Balthazar keeps a silent watch beside him, tail swishing and amber eyes alert. Castiel doesn’t know how much time has passed before Balthazar rubs against his leg and prances away. He’s about to call after the kitten when he hears the wheat swishing behind him.

“Cas? It’s the middle of the night, what are you doing out here?”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply and nearly chokes on his breath; he’s been weeping, he realizes, the tight ache in his chest something akin to the ache in his scars.

“It hurts,” he gasps, and he doesn’t need to say more.

Dean is a familiar warmth at his back, fingers kneading against knots in Castiel’s muscles and lips pressing a gentle kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m here,” Dean says into his skin, voice slow and sweet like honey. “I will always be here, angel, watching over you.”

It takes Castiel a moment to place the words that Dean has just repeated, and the distraction draws him back from the brink of panic. He closes his eyes, tight, and concentrates on the feeling of Dean’s hands on his back. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh and leans back against Dean’s chest. Dean kisses the hard edge of his jaw.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Castiel reaches a hand behind him to card his fingers through Dean’s hair. He opens his eyes to bright moonlight.

“There is not much to say,” he replies. “I… I miss my wings. I miss my _Grace_.”

He takes too long to answer, too long to consider his words and how they might come across. When Dean doesn’t say anything, he worries that he should have kept his thoughts to himself. But then Dean wraps his arms tighter around Castiel’s chest and the horrible squeeze in his lungs dissipates.

“I wish I could help, love, I do. Just… tell me what you need, when you know. I’ll be here.”

Castiel turns his face away from the moon to kiss the tuft of Dean’s hair that is tickling his chin from the place Dean has buried his face in Castiel’s neck. Dean hums a noise of contentment, and Castiel feels a returning kiss on his shoulder.

Dean is a happier man now than a year ago, Castiel thinks, much more at ease with himself and far more open with his emotions. Dean’s humming slowly turns into a melody as Castiel absently cards his fingers through his hair, and Castiel’s fear slips away entirely, replaced by the heady warmth of affection. He could live in this moment forever, nestled in Dean’s embrace- so in love he thinks his heart may burst and hidden from the world by a field of gold.


End file.
